


The Curze of Remnant

by Unplumbed



Category: RWBY, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Betrayal, Character Death, Death, Gen, Military Science Fiction, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 63,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unplumbed/pseuds/Unplumbed
Summary: A son of the Emperor is spirited away to a world of monsters and magic. The Unification of Remnant has begun. Cross-posted on FFN.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is cross-posted on FFN.

**"So foul a sky clears not without a storm."**

**~ The dramaturge Shakespire, of Old Earth.**

* * *

**The Boy Who Would Be King**

**Son**

**Castaway**

For a second, he stared, unflinchingly so, at the azure sky. It was half obscured by the earthly, umber grime. 

His eye twitched, flashing across the delicate innards of his cradle engine. The glass holds. A spiderweb fracture radiates outwards. 

It all rushes back to him. Suspension. Birth. Sentience. This is not where he belongs. Not here. Not in...wherever he is.

A mechanical scream pierces his ears. Klaxons blare and fire. The generator had died, and so has the backup oxygen reserve. 

He snapped out of his stupor, and stood. Survival instincts kicked in. Air gushed downwards in voluminous inhalations, enriching his arcane biology to an extent far greater than it will for the mortals of this world. The boy smells smoke. He chokes and gags. He sees a trickle of some fluid from above, the same fluid that he stood knee-deep in.

How long has he been here? An hour? Two?

He pushes on the shutter. It does not budge. He tries to slide it away, but it has been jammed for good. He looks underneath it. A few cracks had been formed. That was how the fluid had drained. 

Despairing, the boy punched the broken, malfunctioning thing out of pure instinct. It was annihilated, blown out of the way by the sheer might of his strike.

His sacred blood slithers down the sides of his fists as the twisted metal opened his knuckles to the bone.

A surge of a forgotten hormone, engineered during the Dark Ages to be at least twenty times stronger than its evolutionary predecessor- an adrenal surge of such potency that it shadowed most amphetamines - is produced. It spikes his blood, granting him a transient immunity to pain as the heat radiates from his hand to his head.

The pain is extreme, but he does not care.

It elevates his strength to obscene heights, and the boy emerges from the smoldering hulk. A blur, alabaster-white. His feet barely touched the ground as he covers ten meters before the first drop of blood made landfall.

Daylight strikes the bottoms of his eyes for the first time in more than a standard year. The boy-ghoul writhes in the open as he adjusts to the heat – an arm flies up and shields his face from the sunlight - he howls and 

He opens his eyes once more. Their constricted pupils flared with pain as the boy's eyes tried to adapt to the sudden, piercing sunlight. They metamorphosed into pinpricks, then to the size of dinner plates, and then some more through several iterations as it shrank back. The boy looked around, withdrawing his hands from his eyes.

Clear as crystal.

Red like roses was the color of their leaves, and their barks were umber as the soil is dark and brown. For as far as his eyes could see, a sea, a scarlet forest stretches out, out, and out.

He begins to make sense of his environment. The boy's perfect teeth sparkled under the midday sun as he devoured the oxygen-rich air that surrounds him through great, strenuous breaths. It dissolves into his lifeblood through an impossibly dense and convoluted network of gene-forged capillaries before passing through his body in great, slithering arterioles that twist and twist until nothing is left. The eternal gradient is maintained on the edge of a knife.

His gaze fell downwards upon his once-bleeding fists. The lacerations had been sealed in a matter of seconds, his slick blood dried and turned to dust.

And then, there was a sound unlike any other. 

The throttle of a primitive turbine alerts him to the presence of something different.

The orderly roar of the engine juxtaposes against the backdrop cacophony – nature's cacophony, in all its myriad forms and chaotic frequencies, from the melodic calls and chirps of the cuckoo to the cantankerous clamor of the cicadas.

The boy feels as his antediluvian forefathers once felt, in the earliest, darkest jungles of time immemorial. He acts and feels as they felt, towards ships long forgotten and weapons that blasphemed the Gods, towards oceans once uncrossed and metals undiscovered.

He feels fear, for what is perhaps both the first and last time.

He knows, with frightening clarity, that he is not alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Introduction**

**Discovery**

**Rationalization**

* * *

**1226 hours, 2nd axial rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time  
Western Sector, Forever Fall, Vale**

No further than twenty steps later did the boy stop dead in his tracks.

The roar of the engine was increasing in strength and ferocity.

Hidden behind the trunk of a scarlet-haired tree, the boy surveyed the descent of a convoy of mighty VTOLs.

He could smell the metal. Even though it was clean, glimmering in the midday sun, the boy could smell the stench of death wafting off their panoplies of warfare, their silvery guns that shimmered in the midday sun.

Three of them converged upon the forest. A fourth continued onwards, headed directly towards the site of the impact.

At first glance, it immediately became clear this one was much, much larger than the rest.

Sunlight scintillated off the aluminum exterior of its sleek fuselage, and the metallic exteriors of its four slender nacelles caught a perfect reflection of the sun. If such things could be quantified, its elegance and beauty far outstripped the three bullheads that escorted it. It was close to three times longer than them, but the ship could still land on the massive, air-blasted clearing surrounding the crater. Such was the extent of the damage inflicted upon the forest by the pod's impact.

The wreckage of the pod stood slanted at a thirty-degree angle towards the charred, black soil.

An automated ramp extended outwards of the airship's primary entrance and a woman stepped out, flanked by a muscular man in the Atlesian army's uniform.

She was in her mid-twenties; her form moved slowly and clumsily, at least from the perspective of the boy, and she fidgeted with a shiny device in her hands. She wore a set of thick-rimmed glasses, and her eyes were either black or a very, very dark brown. A black sling bag was slung over her shoulders, and it appeared to have caused quite a strain on the woman's shoulders.

The Specialist escorting her looked no older than thirty, but the look in his pale blue eyes told a different story. Unlike her, he moved nimbly and exuded a subtle, trained grace despite his impressive musculature. The man's skin was a tanned Valean umber, and it glistened with sweat under the sweltering sun. His name was Augustus White, a Specialist in the Atlesian Military.

A rifle squad of ten soldiers escorted them out of the vessel. Like a well-oiled machine, they swept out across the ruined landscape and scanned it for possible hazards in heartbeats. The latest iteration of infantry armour that each of them was clad in facilitated the high-speed scanning, and the soldiers themselves fell back on years of training to weigh their decisions. Each step was taken in unison as they inched towards the crashed pod.

Augustus' hand fell on his weapon as they drew closer to the wreckage.

He could hear the blood pounding against his temples. His muscles tensed; his fingers curled around the grip of his pistol, ready to draw in the blink of an eye.

A voice shattered the pin-drop silence of the approach. One of his subordinates - a sergeant, it seemed, was updating him on the status of the perimeter check.

Augustus paid close attention.

"Sir, we've secured the perimeter. All clear from squads Bloodhound, Phoenix, and Bravo. No sign of Grimm activity in a three-hundred-meter radius."

A surprise.

Usually, there were at least two dozen of the damned creatures within such a radius, according to the monthly survey.

A pleasant surprise, that is.

"Roger that."

_Good. Drones have already checked this place out. No sign of atmospheric anomalies. No poison gas and no radiation._

_Arrowhead formation. Forwards. Go._

Cautiously, the soldiers and the ones they guarded approached the gestation pod, flanking their leader and the woman in the white coat and black skirt. Their boots treaded lightly across the charred soil of the crater as they approached it in a circular formation. Alice Lockwood, a prominent, yet reclusive researcher of Grimm Physiology, approached the unidentified carefully beside the Specialist.

"Twenty meters from the unidentified object, Sir," said a soldier. His voice was laced with caution, and Augustus could hear the inklings of fear that lingered in his subconscious. These men were armed to the teeth, clad from head to toe in the latest iteration of Atlesian infantry armour. But the situation they were faced with was something new, and the fact that these men were some of the most skilled soldiers in the Atlesian Military did nothing to quell the unease that burned coldly in the core of Augustus' psyche.

"Ten meters," reported the same soldier, seconds later.

"We shall stop here," voiced Augustus immediately, "Secure the area."

At the sound of his voice, the soldiers fanned out across the smoking clearing. Bits of the object had landed within the ten-meter radius. These were sizeable, jagged pieces of metal that remained hot to the touch. The soldiers circled around them warily, keeping a mental tally of the number of such fragments in their area. Only Augustus and Alice remained where they were, standing ten meters away from the smoldering husk of alien metal.

He felt something brush up against his armoured suit. It was Alice. She was prodding his shoulder.

"I…have to take a closer look." Despite her calm demeanour, Alice was brimming with excitement. She began to move towards the craft, but the Specialist grabbed her sleeved arm.

"Not yet. Protocol dictates that we are not to breach the ten-meter radius before the surrounding area is secured," reminded the Specialist with a soft, but firm, voice.

"Haven't you already secured it?" asked the biologist impatiently. Augustus loosened his grip on her forearm.

"VA in these areas isn't clear enough to be absolutely certain, due to all the trees. Squad Hydra, this squad, is still securing the immediate area."

"VA?"

"Sorry. Visual acuity," explained Augustus. "We can't know for sure that there aren't one or two Grimm in this area. I wanted this squad to secure the immediate area due to its strategic significance if we are attacked by Grimm. All it takes is just a few Grimm to sneak up on us and we're done for. They're standing guard at ten meters away from the tree-line so that they can attack at a distance, assuming the Grimm emerge at the tree-line."

"Grimm are fast. Very fast. Capable of explosive bursts of speed faster than most vehicles. Most will cover that distance in a heartbeat. Too bad the forest's quite shallow," mused Alice.

"What? Too bad?"

"Too bad is not too bad."

"Too bad is not too bad is very bad."

The two of them chuckled at the crude joke, and for a moment, the soldiers stared at them oddly.

Alice looked longingly at the object, then at the few scraps of otherworldly metal strewn across the field, and then to her scroll.

"The metallurgists are going to love this," she mumbled, absentmindedly.

"We've secured the immediate surroundings, Sir." The voice crackled over the radio, and Augustus turned in the direction of the man who had spoken. He gave him the thumbs-up, and activated the microphone on his scroll.

"Looks like we're safe...for now," said the Specialist. Alice couldn't help but notice the cautious undertone that had been present in his voice ever since they'd entered the Forever Fall airspace.

"Pilot, do you copy?"

"Yes, Sir. Has the area been secured?"

"Area secured. Have the androids bring out the equipment. Over."

Augustus cut the line.

He remembered Ironwood's face when he told him not to let Alice get into, and he most certainly did not want to be on the receiving end of his anger. She was an important asset to the nation.

"Why is it taking so long for the damn androids to bring my stuff out?! Wait, is that amniotic fluid I see?" asked the biologist in a rhetorical manner as she peered over the Specialist's shoulder and the shoulders of the guards. She gestured towards a pool of viscous, transparent fluid on the ground. Bits of dirt had gathered on top of it, indicating that this was denser than human amniotic fluid. It was then that everything became crystal clear to Alice.

Alice donned a pair of vinyl gloves and a pair of safety goggles, which she wore over her own spectacles.

"Careful," warned Augustus, before leaving the biologist to her own devices. Alice nodded.

Bending over towards the ground, she opened a sling bag and retrieved a syringe from its depths. Next came a cylindrical vial, thirty millilitres in volume. The tip of the hypodermic needle slid beneath the stagnant surface of the light yellow fluid, and Alice collected a small sample of the fluid. She noted the sweet, cheese-like odour it emanated, the greasy white detritus that lay suspended within the milky medium, and pocketed the samples.

_Vernix caseosa, the protective substance that coats the skin of newborns_ , she thought, _nothing out of the ordinary for late-stage embryonic fluid for humans and Faunus, if my memory serves me right. But that's strange. Why would there be human fluids in a... presumably alien vessel? And this would imply the presence of a gestating fetus in this thing._

Given Atlas' technological prowess, methods of artificial birth have been brought up over the past decade or so. A hypothetical solution was to replicate the structure of the female womb with steel and glass – the rearing of a child in a large, sterile container with a mechanical replacement for the umbilical cord and a synthetic version of amniotic fluid to facilitate the osmotic transfer of nutrients from an outside source to the fetus.

It then dawned on her that analogues of these hypothesized devices were lying just meters away from her. Though it deviated slightly from the idealized design, the cylindrical structure that lay before her bore some resemblance to the device she'd envisioned in her dreams. The researcher waded towards the unknown, through the smoldering debris of arcane technology.

_I'll be damned_ , she thought as her gaze fell upon the centrepiece. It was cylindrical — barrel-shaped in form. The sunlight shimmered mirthlessly off the craft's gunmetal carapace, and the stain of freshly upheaved dirt tinted the shell a particularly raw shade of copper.

From top to bottom the gestation capsule — or what was left of it — was very nearly symmetrical.

Alice's eyes traced the thick rubbery cables that fed out from the craft's conical top and flat bottom, and it soon became apparent that they had been severed messily by some unknown force.

A shoal of calculations sailed through her mind as she approximated the amount of force required to rip through the cables. Across their girths, they must have measured a few inches, at least, and that was discounting the thick insulating substance that they had been coated with. Alice could not understand how there was not a single scorch mark across the vessel.

There was an opening — a slight one — that allowed someone outside to look within. A thick sheet of glass had been held firmly in a circular frame. Perhaps it could be described as a window. For all intents and purposes, it did appear so.

Alice did not like that word. In fact, she hated the fact that it had been the first thing she'd thought of when the feature came into view.

Assigning it a purpose derived from the needs of Mankind reflected a lot on the extent of her hubris, and the collective hubris of her species.

But in some primal place of her mind, Alice found the object's design very human. The feeling was indescribable, and its source was unknown, but it lodged itself deep into her mind with a steely conviction. Indeed, everything here seemed to have been conceived through a series of witticisms that seemed too human in origin. First was the glass — at least, what appeared to be glass. Was it really glass? The material certainly resembled man-made glass, but was it really glass?

Alice scanned the window with her scroll, just to be safe. Hot glass appeared no differently from the glass at room temperature.

34 degrees centigrade.

"So it's a poor conductor of heat? I can't know for sure. This thing crashed...over an hour before we arrived. But this is definitely not the normal type of glass. It's probably the equivalent of the best heat resistant glass ever developed on Remnant. Hmm...In the past decade or so Atlesian researchers had come up with several solutions to the problem of rapid and extreme heating encountered in re-entry. Optical-quality fused silica was a glass-like material possessing an extremely low coefficient of thermal expansion that made it suitable for such an environment. But silicon dioxide would still have to be used for making fused silica. Now, that leaves two options. One, one of the constituents of this material is silicon dioxide, which implies that silicon dioxide exists on exoplanets. Two, this material was created using alternative compounds," mused the researcher.

Alice scratched her head, still perturbed by the questions in her head. She tapped the glass with a gloved finger. It was remarkably dense and felt like metal.

_Interesting. Very interesting._

The interior of the object was a completely different story.

For starters, everything seemed to be waterproof — for obvious reasons. A deep pool of amniotic fluid had collected on the floor, and a fine layer of the liquid had coated the interior walls of the capsule. Exposed circuitry as complicated as that of a cogitator's motherboard, but scaled downwards hundredfold, had been scarcely interspersed across the otherwise blank walls of the interior, and a tiny red light blinked overhead unceasingly.

There was no doubt about it now. This thing had once been an artificial womb.

Human, then alien. Alice could not decide. Her mind oscillated between the two options. The pod's exterior reeked of a human, all too human utilitarianism. So did the circuitry on the pod's interior but to a far lesser degree.

For now, Alice Lockwood would keep the thought a secret.

She got back to work.

**1510 hours, 2nd Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Classified Location, Vale**

"What?!" asked Ironwood. He had nearly choked on his coffee when the news arrived from the Specialist, who was currently at a military airfield in Vale. As they spoke, a synthetic version of dust – in liquid form at room temperature – was being pumped into the fuel tanks of the airships in his convoy, in order for them to last the arduous, one-way journey back to Atlas.

"Alice believes that there is an extra-terrestrial organism currently in the Forever Fall forest," reiterated Augustus, flinching from the outraged voice of the General, "I think so too. If the foetal organism died from the crash, there should have been a body. We did not find one at the site. Instead, there were a pair of footprints that looked strangely familiar, leading out of the crater."

Ironwood took some time to digest the news.

"And where did they lead to?"

"We don't know, Sir. It was covered by the grass. What is strange was that, while we found some blood on what appeared to be a broken…door, there was no blood in the grass or anywhere in the forest for that matter, at least for a fifty-meter radius. Alice thinks that it might be a regenerative ability. And the footprints looked like those of a human."

A long pause.

"What did you say?" asked Ironwood incredulously.

"Sir, we did not find any blood anywhere other than the object itself—"

"No, the last part," said Ironwood, cutting him off.

"We found what appeared to be the footsteps of a human leading out of the crashed object."

"You mean…exactly like a human's? Not humanoid? How many toes?"

"Sir, the footprints that looked precisely human. Maybe a seven or eight-year-old. But they were extremely deep for their size. It was as if the organism had taken off in a sprint immediately after exiting the object," replied Augustus, placing a strong emphasis on 'exactly'.

"Did you notice anything about the object itself?"

There was a delay.

"Yes, Sir. A slider door was seen several meters away from the object with deep dents on its exterior. It could have dropped off on the object's descent, or something might have pushed it away with great force."

The sound of stifled breathing came from the other side of the earpiece.

Besides Salem, this could possibly be the greatest threat to the kingdoms. An extraterrestrial invasion, beginning with a shapeshifting infiltrator.

Biological warfare was a coward's strategy that he understood all too well from the history books. During the Great War, corpses infected with deadly viruses were launched by the people of Mantle directly into Valean towns. It was a primitive but effective strategy that resulted in the deaths of thousands.

Ironwood reasoned that it was highly probable that more of these unidentified objects have crashed in the Kingdoms, or in the region outside them.

"You arrived at around 1230 hours, ten minutes after that thing landed. Am I correct?"

"Yes, General."

"It couldn't have gone far. It might have been attacked by the Grimm, perhaps even killed. Be that as it may, I have suspicions that this a biological weapon, and as such I will be requesting for the Forever Fall forest to be cordoned off immediately by the local authorities. The organism might infect the Grimm with an alien pathogen, and from Grimm the pathogen will be transmitted to humans. It might also be a spy if it resembles a human. Specialist, report back to the base with Alice immediately. A second wave of investigators, comprising of mechanical engineers, aerospace engineers, and material science experts from Vale and Atlas is already inbound towards the site. It is now 1513 hours, Atlesian time. The journey from your current location to Atlas will take around 21 hours, so you will be briefed in my office tomorrow at 1330 hours, Atlesian time. I'm putting together an interdisciplinary research team, and you will be supervising it. For obvious reasons, I've increased your, as well as Alice's security clearance level to TS. You have done well, Specialist White."

"It is an honor, General. Thank you."

The line was cut, and Augustus heaved a sigh of relief.

"So, what did he say?"

The high-pitched, neotenous voice rang out from behind him. Augustus turned and looked at Alice. She had walked out of the toilet while reading something on her scroll.

"He thinks it's a carrier of pathogens."

Alice did not look up from the device.

"I wouldn't blame him for thinking so."

"He also thinks that it might be a spy," added Augustus.

"That sounds more logical."

"He also thinks that it might have been attacked by the Grimm."

Alice grunted in acknowledgement. "Possibly, but it wouldn't matter much."

"That's what I've been thinking about. Any alien civilization smart enough to build such an intricate device and bioengineer a new creature would also have the brains to study the ecosystem their enemy resides in. This creature that is now loose would, therefore, be able to kill Grimm, assuming that its creators had sent it into a forest crawling with Grimm on purpose," theorized Augustus.

"Well, that's totally correct, assuming they were able to calculate the trajectory of the gestation capsule, which I'm sure they can," said Alice. She began to scratch her unbrushed hair as an itch arose.

Augustus peered at his friend's jet-black hair. Bits of dandruff could be seen lodged on the surface, and he picked them off one-by-one.

"Hmm, how long has it been since you washed?" asked Augustus, catching a whiff of the odour that enveloped her.

"I don't know. A week, maybe two?" said Alice, looking at her scroll.

Her alabaster skin shone with perspiration, and the Valean climate intensified her stench. Her appearance was by no means the 'type' that most people would become infatuated with, but her black eyes often gleamed with a frightening intensity, especially when she was interested in something.

"Disgusting," said Augustus, knowing that she was not the type who got emotional over a remark on something as silly as this.

"He's putting together a team of leading experts to make sense of the situation."

"I've heard," she muttered tonelessly, "Will Mr. Robot-Maker be there?"

"The General hasn't told me yet," replied Augustus.

"Leading experts. The brightest minds in Atlas," she scoffed, "Or rather, the ones who can build him the best weapons. Well, at least there are a few who can see past the current paradigm, like Mr. Robot-Maker. And look at what happened to their ideas! They were all weaponized, every single one of them!"

"Come now, let's not have the same conversation for the umpteenth time. The Great War ended a long time ago, and you know how much money is being spent to better the lives of the people in Mantle," said Augustus, stemming the flow of her tirade.

"The absence of conflict does not imply the absence of the attitudes that led to it," she hissed murderously, and her cheeks flared crimson as serenity metamorphosed into white-hot rage. But as quickly as her anger had overwhelmed her, it died down.

"What is the next rank in this military? Captain? Major?"

"The former," replied Augustus.

"Ah. Do you want to be a Captain?" questioned Alice, with a hint of amusement in her voice.

"I would rise to my level of incompetence. If I do not have the ability to perform well as a Captain, General Ironwood would know," said Augustus in a stoic manner.

"That's not what I asked," said Alice, shaking her head, "Though, when taken as an honest reply, it sounds almost as though you just…drift."

"I'm thinking," muttered Augustus, "I've long wondered why I chose a career in the military. Out of duty? Out of pure talent? I don't think it's that simple."

"Well, you've shown a talent for strategy games since young. Remember when we played that game with the other kids?"

"We beat them every single time. Until they quit out of frustration," said Augustus, cutting her off. A smile creased his stony face, but like a surfacing fish, it disappeared as quickly as it appeared, "I knew you'd say that, I know what you're about to say, and I know what you are trying to say."

"Well, passion can be part of the equation, can it not?" suggested Alice.

"True. Or did we? With that aside, surely this equation and its constituents – with a binary output – is objective for all those who are employed."

"Well, there may be times when the variables of an individual's equation differ from those of others. The normativism that you proposed might do more harm than good. Anyways, I would think that presupposing the existence of certain variables in an individual's equation is the essence of cynicism. When working with definitions of the language's lexicon, there should be no room for equivocation," replied Alice, whose mind swiftly decoded any abstraction that lay in the interlocuter's message.

A short pause as Augustus digested Alice's message.

"That's an interesting way to interpret motivational theories. I'd never thought of it that way before," he admitted. Alice did not smile at the compliment, but thanked him deep down for not dismissing her views out of jealousy.

"So, when are we leaving this place?" she asked impatiently, "I can't stand this heat."

It was either out of pure coincidence or something else that Augustus' scroll began to ring. He picked it up, and held it to his right ear.

"Yes. Okay," he said, before hanging up and pocketing the scroll.

"So?" asked Alice.

"Our ride's ready."

* * *

**1512 hours, 2nd Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Eastern Sector, Forever Fall, Kingdom of Vale**

The grass felt soft underneath his feet. He ran as the wind rippled through the forest, without a shred of fatigue.

Instead, it seemed he was accelerating. In truth, his cells were filled to the brim with energy. All this running had generated enough signaling molecules to jumpstart an auxiliary catabolic pathway that brought about the synthesis of an energetically bonded macromolecule.

Harnessing such a molecule through its enzymatic breakdown yielded the same results as those of the dominant pathway, and with muscle fibres that accepted the energy-carrying molecules of both pathways, the boy could — in theory — keep switching between dominant and auxiliary metabolic pathways and never run out of stamina.

Yet, like how the initiation of an action potential depended on whether a depolarization event causes a sufficient change in the resting membrane potential, it was an all or none event — the breaching of a threshold must occur, and the genetic secrets behind such a mechanism were all but forgotten to humanity.

On and on he ran, propelled by his sheer instinct and strength. Running at such a brisk pace without stopping for the duration accomplished thus far would have surely killed anyone, huntsman-powered-by-aura or not. His well-defined, hyperdense muscles flared as he sprinted through the forest without any clothes to inhibit his speed. His naked feet were layered with sores, but he paid no attention to the gnawing pain. The forest was deathly silent around him, with the occasional roar of a monster in the distance.

Not that he cared. He thirsted. Finding food and water, and then perhaps shelter, was a priority.

After another hour of running, he came to a stop at the peak of a massive cliff. It overlooked a vast section of the forest that stretched out for as far as the eye could see.

And then, he saw it.

A meandering river of wrought iron.

The railroad glimmered in the midday sun, stretching on and on ahead towards the northern horizon. It sat atop a platform, thirty feet into the sky, high above every tree in its environment. Miles and miles of electric fencing surrounded the railway on its left and right sides, making it nearly inaccessible to Grimm. Of course, airborne species like Nevermores were still able to attack from above.

The boy's eyes traced the snaking railway to areas far beyond a mortal's perception. It was then that he noticed the forest's edge and the human settlement that lay before that.

Three, perhaps four kilometres away, brutalist office buildings built from grim, unyielding concrete lined the sides of old, tar roads with a utilitarian precision. There was another district, composed of was what appeared to be an upper-middle-class shopping area and a train station. The buildings of the latter district appeared to have been built with a more sophisticated and 'beautiful' design in mind. Although he did not fully comprehend their purpose, there were vestiges of understanding that formed rapidly with his innate creativity.

The image was printed firmly into the boy's mind. He made a primitive, if not ingenious measurement of the town's relative position, and set off, trudging once again into the depths of the forest in the direction of the settlement.

**2123 hours, 3rd Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Researcher Dormitory No. 3/19, Military Wing, Atlas Institute of Technology**

Alice paused and took a deep breath. As her eyes gazed into the computer terminal, her fingers began to strike the keyboard in rapid strokes as she typed in her password.

\+ Identity verified: Alice Lockwood – Lead Researcher +

\+ Access Granted…Awaiting commands +

/new

\+ New document created. Request: file location and name +

/project_ET/Reports/Report 2

The terminal disappeared, replaced by a blank, editable document.

Taking in another deep breath, she began writing, reminding herself to end off each paragraph with a summary written in simple language.

A copy would be sent to General Ironwood, and another to the Governing Council. For obvious reasons, this was highly classified information.

** Assignment ET: Report 2 **

**A formal investigation of the organism's DNA has been conducted by myself.**

**The results were astonishing.**

**I isolated 46 chromosomes from a basal keratinocyte in arrested metaphase. This was the total number of chromosomes found in the cell's nucleolus. If not for the damage sustained by the DNA before its discovery, the overall structure of the chromosomes was extremely like those of _h. sapiens sapiens_ and _h. sapiens fera._ However, they were a staggering 83.1% more massive than regular _h. sapiens sapiens_ and _h. sapiens fera_ chromosomes.**

**The DNA of this organism contains more base pairs per turn than that of the average _h. sapiens sapiens_ and _h. sapiens fera_. The DNA of this organism is composed of six helices compared to the two in _h. sapiens sapiens_ and _h. sapiens fera_.**

**Technological limitations have made it so that I am unable to determine the specifics using the simulation software running on the Model IV High-Performance Zettascale Supercomputer. However, here are a few things that I have discovered.**

**The physical strength of this organism is expected to be far greater than any human, dead or alive. I predict that there will be a much greater density of muscle fibres than what is thought to be the maximum for humans and fauni, though it is probably impossible to quantify the difference. There also appears to be a novel form of muscle contraction, which is facilitated by the analogue proteins encoded by the autosomal genes. Although I am unaware of the proceedings of this mechanism, it clearly does not conform to the sliding filament theory of muscular contraction.**

**In other words, the organism's muscles do not contract in the same way as a human's, and the organism is probably far stronger than the average huntsman under the influence of aura.**

**The organism is also hypothesized to be highly intelligent, due to the implication of a superior nervous system required for coordination and cognition, though it is unknown to what extent is it superior to the average _h. sapiens sapiens_ in terms of abstract reasoning ability, problem solving ability, and short/long term memory due to insufficient genetic evidence.**

**Unfortunately, the genetic material was in an intermediate state of decomposition, probably due to the Valean climate, and as such certain genes could not be used for simulations. Still, I discovered that the lung analogues of this organism had a capacity of about twenty to twenty-five times that of _h. sapiens sapiens_ or _h. sapiens fera._ It is hypothesized that the organism would surely have a much larger heart, or even two hearts, in order to circulate such great quantities of oxygen in a safe manner.**

A long pause.

There was a high chance that the organism was not a carrier of any alien pathogens. This was because none were discovered within the gestation pod. Perhaps the organism had the ability to artificially replicate pathogens through some esoteric technique hitherto unknown by mankind. Or perhaps the organism was a breeding ground for these parasites. But if that were the case, there would be at least a few specimens discovered within the gestation pod. There were none. These notions were formed from the same premise that the organism was a biological weapon.

So, what if the organism was a biological weapon? Or perhaps it was a tool of espionage — it would certainly have to resemble a human, just a slightly larger one. But if it were a spy, there would have to be communication between it and its creators. So how would it communicate with them? Was it perhaps implanted with knowledge of how to build such advanced technology from scratch? Or would it use the technology of this planet to communicate with its creators? The latter implied that its creators knew of a method to imprint an imperative — a command that could never be disobeyed — into its genetic material, where a convoluted series of causal happenings would lead to the expression of the genetic message as a series of actions.

This appeared to Alice as an impossibly complex mechanism that rested on the same principles that allowed the behavior of a person to be influenced by certain hormones. While hormones affected the human body in a straight-forward, incredibly simplistic manner, this hypothesized techno-magic was so complicated that even Alice could not wrap her head around it.

To her, it seemed that signaling molecules such as hormones were the most logical solution to influence the behavior of an organism. Since it was impossible for a single signaling molecule to force an organism to comply with complex demands, Alice suspected that there could be multiple molecules responsible for this.

Alice stared at her desk. It was cluttered with dusty piles of research papers that she had read over the years. Her eyes came to rest on a paper titled "The Relationship between Libido and Testosterone Levels in Men."

_Urges._

That was it.

A series of connections formed lightning-quick in the mind of Alice Lockwood.

_Urges, urges, urges._

A compulsion that stems from the genetic material can be defined as a genetic imperative. The lexicon of the genetic imperative, in its most reduced state, must be in the form of DNA.

The genetic material that encodes certain signaling molecules, chemical signals that such as hormones and neurotransmitters, is causally related to the expression of certain behavioral preferences. While these behaviors may not be directly caused by these signaling molecules, the presence of these signaling molecules increases the likelihood of such behavior as they confer motivational salience.

The deeper Alice thought the more questions she had. Indeed, the notions she had hitherto developed became more and more ludicrous as she generated rationalization after rationalization to support these theories.

_No, it was impossible_ , thought Alice, dismissing her efforts as futile and the theory a dangerous one.

_Humanity hasn't gathered enough information to explain this. To this date, we only have a limited and basic understanding of the biological influences of simple behavior and emotions. I alone cannot gain an advanced understanding of how these…alien analogue organs function. There are many other organs that the supercomputer managed to simulate, but I am still unable to determine their functions._

The simulation of the analogue liver played in near-photographic quality, over and over in her mind. She did not understand. She could not understand. Perhaps the answer will come to her in her dreams, as it always did.

Once, her intellect had been described as immeasurable by every child psychologist sent to test her during the highly selective talent searches conducted by the Atlesian government. They were right; under a tailored program funded by the Atlesian government, she had earned her doctorate in Grimm physiology when most were in their senior year of Combat School. Quite literally, there was not a single problem - in the field of biology - that she could not solve.

Yet, here was one. Although she had only studied the organism's genetic makeup for much less than a day, Alice felt as though she could grasp the inner workings of a single organ only in the next decade or so. The civilization behind the artificial design of this organism was clearly several orders of magnitude more advanced than Atlas, let alone any kingdom on this planet. Internally, she sighed and smiled at the same time. Here was finally a challenge that she could set her mind to. The existence of a technologically superior extra-terrestrial civilization was now an undeniable fact, one that had caused a great paradigm shift within her, and frankly, it was a little disturbing. Could they be seeders of life on other planets? Or could they simply be observers, allowing the emergence of complexity in a sea of chaos? Were they malevolent or benevolent? But then again, why did they launch this unprovoked attack on the planet?

The white of the monitor's screen disappeared, replaced by black. It had been turned off because of the power-saving feature incorporated within Alice's computer.

The black of her pupils focused on the screen as she snapped out of her stupor, alerted to the change in the screen's colour. She tended to go off on mental tangents such as these, during which her body would simply freeze in place.

Alice moved her mouse. The screen flickered to life.

_Details, details. So many details._

She tilted her head back, brushing aside the unwashed tangle of black hair that flowed from her scalp to the outcrop of her white pajamas like ink that was spilled on a plane of parchment. Alice yawned loudly and lazily in her bedroom, and the fluorescent lighting scintillated off the alabaster skin of her face as she slouched on her chair.

It was cold here in the dormitories. Rain poured in great, voluminous heaps from the heavens. She wondered where Augustus was at this hour. Probably in his room, studying one of his library's myriad books on military tactics.

She ruminated on the answer he had given him on the airship, as well as the conversation they had. He had never struck her as someone who was after fame, power, or money.

Just someone who was confused about which variables mattered and which did not.

She cracked her knuckles and continued writing the report.

**In conclusion, it is with extreme likelihood that this organism has human features. However, I believe that the organism would be around 1.5 to 2 times larger than a human in terms of bodily dimensions out of simple necessity, making it a clear target amongst the civilian population.**

**I would advise against engaging the organism with infantry, as it is to a hitherto immeasurable degree greater than any human in terms of physical strength, speed, and stamina.**

**Engaging it from a high altitude would be the best option in my opinion, but I will share my views with Specialist Augustus White, who will be the one to come up with the tactical proposal.**

** End **

Alice Lockwood yawned as she completed the document.

She would have loved to observe the creature, or perhaps even hold a conversation with it. But since General Ironwood was already considering extermination as the first option, she now hoped that whatever remained of it would be enough for a dissection.

It was typical of humans to destroy the unknown and mourn the loss of potential knowledge shortly after.

She sighed as the thought came to her as she clicked the 'send' button.

Another great yawn escaped from her mouth.

She gazed at the digital clock.

_2212 hours_ , it read.

_No wonder I'm yawning so much_ , she thought, reaching for a nondescript tube of pills that sat on the far end of her desk. She unscrewed the cap, and popped a single, white tablet into her mouth, downing it with water shortly afterwards.

She slides into her bed, amidst a pile of unwashed rags, and curls into a ball. The lights dim and fade as she pressed a stained button at the head of the bed. Her myriad thoughts that clamored for her attention faded into whispers and then hushed silence, extinguished by the power of the pharmaceutical.

Then, there was nothing but darkness as Alice Lockwood fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who do not already know, it has been established that Vale and Atlas share a time zone. This means that clocks in Atlas read the same time as clocks in Vale. Vacuo is roughly seven hours behind Vale, and Mistral is roughly three hours ahead Vale. I will be using Atlesian time.

**Not as planned**

**Orphan**

**Silver Eyes**

* * *

**2311 hours, 3rd Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Commercial District, Vale**

In this area of the Commercial District, it was not uncommon to see three, four, or even five consecutive weapon stores in a single street.

These were often small, family businesses that made and sold weapons for a living. In Vale, no licenses were needed to own deadly weapons, but all weapons and the people who bought them had to be registered in an official, legal document. There was no limit on the number of weapons an individual could possess, and concealed carry of bladed objects and firearms was entirely acceptable. Even in the fortress-kingdom of Vale, Grimm attacks were unpredictable and not unheard of.

However, elemental Dust — synthetic or natural — had to be stored in approved, highly-unreactive containers for the sake of safety. Dust stores had to undergo scheduled safety inspections by government agents. In the past decade, there had been several deadly explosions and fires caused by malfunctioning equipment, and the governing council did not want to risk another one.

Orphans were relatively common in the Vale and made up 5 percent of the population. The leading cause of their creation was, of course, Grimm attacks. Most took place in rural villages, some occurred near the boundaries of the kingdoms. Most orphans would arrive in the large cities, where, a few would be lucky enough to be granted admission into the many packed orphanages and combat schools distributed around the kingdoms if they could pass the admission tests.

Therefore, the sight of children and teenagers roaming the streets of rural areas, wearing the same clothes given to them by their rescuers, was not an uncommon one. In some areas, they were often responsible for orchestrating robberies and pickpockets on middle-class civilians.

Usually, there were several state-run education centers where these orphans could be taught to read and write for free, but these were mostly run by abusive headmasters who hired teachers who were of similar caliber in their enjoyment of sadism.

One orphan — though not technically one, yet — now slept on the cold, concrete floor in an alleyway.

The dreamer was draped in a black, tattered cloth that he had found lying on the top of a rubbish heap. Moonlight glinted off its fair skin, and the shadowy passage of clouds above was displayed on the organic canvas, forming an eerie, animated tapestry.

For a few, long hours had he studied these creatures of his kind. They were all clothed, some in more colorful and sophisticated outfits, and others in plain and common clothing. The latter could be found in greater, much greater abundance than the former.

A city slumbered around him. It was a city of light. A city of order — ordered structures that abided by the first principles of natural law which Man had discovered.

Instinctively, the boy knew that others of his kind could be found in this unnatural place. This he knew the moment he spied the sprawling concrete jungle on the horizon, back in the forest of red.

They communicated with voices. Human sounds. Spoken language. Sound was a medium for the transmission of information in the form of language. A human medium, it was.

The boy understood the concept of language. The lexicon had been stored in the form of embryonic memory, created with an artificial version of synaptic pruning via long-lost nanoscale devices. His creators had implanted an entire lexicon into the mind of a fetal demigod through the shaping of his neural architecture using arcane technologies. Every word, every meaningful utterance could — with sufficient repetition and predetermined neuroplasticity — create its reflection in a predefined conformational matrix of synaptic connections through the phenomenon known to the scientists of Old Earth as Synaptic Pruning. Thus, through an ingenious reversal of causality, artificial memories could theoretically be synthesized and implanted.

He knew seven thousand, six hundred, and forty-one languages, dialects, argots, and cants from across the Old Federation. This one was slightly different at the first hearing, but similarities emerged from the boy's subconscious cross-referencing of the myriad lexical vestiges this one bore. Slowly but surely, he understood the language they spoke without a clue as to how. It only felt right that he did. Their language was quite different from what he had envisioned during the trek, but it mattered not. But he needed more. More words.

And now, everything was working perfectly.

He knew that his understanding of the language was rudimentary at best, and he had much to learn. Out of pure instinct, he hungered for knowledge.

And tomorrow, he will find everything out.

Tomorrow.

* * *

**0850 hours, 4th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**70th floor, Main Tower, Atlas Academy, Atlas.**

Augustus White peered out of the window.

Five inches of aluminum oxynitride and polycarbonate stood between him and a four-hundred-meter drop. As added protection from kinetic energy penetrators and high explosive rounds, an additional four inches of ceramic composite armor molded into a titanium wall lay hidden in an enclosed space immediately above him, ready to drop and cordon off the window at the press of a button. Hidden beneath the massive shutter's titanium casing was a lattice of hexagonal boron carbide tiles epoxy-glued and compressed within a metal framework.

He now stood at the topmost floor of the colossal main tower of Atlas Academy, and the view from there never ceased to inspire awe within him. Atlas was a bastion of science and technology, and there was certainly no expense spared for the Academy. Just stepping through the two monolithic doors of the main entrance offered him a feeling of security unlike any other.

The first official meeting of the task force that James Ironwood had put together would begin in approximately ten minutes. The Specialist now waited at a lift lobby that fed directly into a corridor that led to Ironwood's office. It also happened to be an observational panel.

Augustus noted the frequent use of glass, silvery metal, and sharp, chiseled edges in the construction that homogenized the metropolis, conferring to it a sense of futurism. But he knew with a steely certainty that there was met the eye in this bastion of technology and military strength.

It was pride and arrogance dressed in architectural prowess, rationalistic utilitarianism, and above all others, beauty. It was human, all too human. More human it was than the humble and plain buildings in the city beneath them. Atlas housed the elite of a nation, the most ruthless, ambitious, and unscrupulous men and women who came to further their careers.

How long had he been away from Atlas? A year? Two? The hot, Valean climate had rendered him unprepared for the frigid climate that Solitas offered all year round. There was an occasional shiver, but for the most part, his Atlesian service dress uniform offered enough insulation to keep him warm.

The gray, dust-absorbent carpet flooring felt soft underneath his combat boots, and the cool air felt pleasant on his skin. A feeling of urgency arose within him as the minutes went by, and Augustus looked at his watch.

_0856 hours_ , it read. The meeting would begin in four minutes. Six have elapsed since he stepped out of the lift, expecting a familiar face.

He was getting impatient. How long did she have to take? They had both agreed to meet at the lift lobby of the 70th floor at 0850 hours. The Atlas Institute of Technology was a mere five hundred meters from the academy's main tower, and, a journey on the direct monorail took a mere fifteen seconds. So why was it that she was taking so long?

Music blasted into his two ears, and the passage of the beat harmonized with the quickening pulse of his arteries. A salvo of fingertips pressed rammed against the glass screen of his scroll, and milliseconds later, a frantic string was composed and sent.

"Ding!"

The loud, awkward ring of a bell managed a feeble whisper as it overwhelmed the musical deafness of his ears. Augustus flinched at the aberration, turning as quick as lightning.

A heavy sigh escaped his mouth when he discovered its origin.

Five spindly alabastrine fingers clutched the custom-made scroll, holding it adjacent to the floor. It buzzed in their gentle grip.

There she stood, a slender silhouette against the soft glow of the overhead fluorescence. Her inky hair was unkempt and cascaded messily over the outcrop of white polyester. Her pale skin was not the rosy white canvas that was typical of the Atlesian elite, but rather, it was the color of lifeless marble. Her black glassy eyes projected a gaze more focused than a laser and more luminous than a quasar.

Her outfit was humble, perhaps shabby. Her clothes appeared to have not been washed in weeks, maybe months. The scarlet plaid shirt that she wore reeked of her scent, and one could see the faint, winding tributaries colored brown — vestiges of spilled coffee from days long gone — on her pants. The leather loafers seemed far too old and worn to be usable, and the lab coat that cloaked everything was old and yellowed.

"Hello."

The word was soft and raspy and stiff from dereliction, spoken through a pair of chapped lips. She stood three meters away, was perfectly still, and did not blink.

The expression she wore was indecipherable; it was far too nuanced to tell.

"You have a lot of balls, coming to meet the General in such an outfit," said the Specialist. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Four minutes and forty-seven seconds," she replied, her voice as cold as ice.

"You used your semblance again, didn't you," said Augustus. Alice's semblance rendered her aura undetectable. Of course, she could still be detected by physical means.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you had arrived."

"I enjoyed watching you tap your feet. Which of your favourite songs run at two-hundred-and-thirty beats per minute?"

"The same one that I listened to last Saturday when you had me over for dinner," said Augustus.

"Oh, that one. I can still hear it in my room if…I listen hard enough." She trailed off at the last word, never quite finishing the sentence, "I never quite understood music or any art form for that matter."

The Specialist smiled.

"It's good to see you again, Alice."

"Likewise. Should we get going?"

Two-and-a-half minutes remained.

Augustus began to walk, briskly, down the well-lit hallway. Alice paced at his side, never looking up from something she was reading on her scroll. The walls were unsurprisingly bland, noted Augustus. After all, General Ironwood was a utilitarian of simple tastes.

The entrance to the office was protected by a pair of blast doors that weighed ten-tons each. They were easily capable of withstanding the simultaneous assault of a thousand beowolves.

Okay, maybe not a thousand, thought Augustus. Perhaps a hundred at most. 

To enter the office, a state-of-the-art biometric recognition system transmitted a signal to several massive hydraulic actuators that were responsible for locking and unlocking the doors. The output was binary — either a negative, indicating mismatch of the inputted biometric data with an internal registry of acceptable values — or a positive, indicating a correct fit between the values of the input and a unit contained within the internal registry of acceptable data inputs, also known generically as datums. Since the doors were locked by default, a negative signal would not be transmitted at all, and only a positive signal would be sent to influence the actuators.

Augustus peered into the lens of the scanning device. A weak light the color of blood shone from within. Seconds later, it was replaced by the color green.

A short pause.

The whirr of a motor's throttle emanated faintly from within the blast doors. The hulking monoliths retreated from one another. The light was fractured, torn apart on the unyielding surface of steel that was smoother than polished ivory. Beyond the door was an office. It was erudite, even by the standards of the Atlesian elite, but as the meeting room in which decisions that bore the weight of the world were made, it seemed rather plain.

Several figures were in the room. Most were scientists and engineers who wore the usual AIT uniform, while General Ironwood sat behind his desk, apparently deep in thought. He was alerted to the presence of the Specialist and stood up immediately. A hush fell across the room and its occupants the moment they entered.

A tall, dignified woman in a specialist outfit stood at attention to the left him. Her skin was fair, and her snow-white hair was tied up in an immaculate bun, which sat on the left side of the back of her head, as well as bangs that were flowed down the right side of her face. On the left side of her waist, a dueling sabre was attached by a chain to her outfit. Her face was beautiful but bore the expression of unyielding steel. She looked no older than thirty.

Augustus realized who it was immediately.

She was Winter Schnee, a colleague of his renowned for her skill with the sword and more so for her surname. But of course, due to the nearly aristocratic status of the Schnee family, her career had been shadowed by allegations of nepotism from the moment she was admitted to the prestigious Atlas Academy.

Augustus stood at attention and saluted the general, who then returned the gesture with a salute and a smile.

Ironwood looked at Alice, who in turn stared at his shirt, unsure of what to do.

He had talked to her a few times in the past, but those correspondences were merely in the form of reports and orders. She never made eye contact, not with him, not with anyone other than perhaps Augustus. There was plenty of information about her on the Atlesian Government's registry of citizens in the form of a comprehensive fact file that he had read for the sake of understanding her strengths and weaknesses.

Every member of the council had a role to play, apart from filling in the gaps with knowledge and experience in their particular domains.

What she lacked immensely in charisma and amiability, she made up for in sheer analytical ability and a truly vast repository of interdisciplinary knowledge. Not a suitable leader by any stretch of the imagination, but a phenomenal problem solver.

She would be the 'big guns', so to speak.

"Alice Lockwood, Senior Researcher of Grimm Physiology at the AIT. I'm sure you have heard of your teammates, yes?" asked the general. He spoke in a gentle, stentorian voice, as deep as the ocean and as gentle as a breeze.

Alice glanced around the room.

None of the task force members had been informed of the identities of their teammates, but they seemed to get along well with each other. A few vestiges of recognition flashed across her mind's eye as she gazed upon the team of experts in its entirety. Faces she had seen as a young child in the newspapers. Award ceremonies on national television. Cross-referencing everything that she had seen in her brief childhood took a near-instant to compute in her subconscious.

However, the identities of the men and women in the room remained complete mysteries to her.

"No, General."

"I see. Well, you will have plenty of time to make their acquaintances in the days to come, but I will be introducing them. Firstly, the leader of this task force is Doctor Johan Schwarz, the Senior Metallurgical Engineer at the AIT's Material Science Research Center. Winner of the Golden Scepter."

Metallurgy. A subdiscipline of material science that investigates the physical and chemical behavior of metallic elements and their alloys. Alice had heard of this field of study a long time ago.

The general gestured at a man who sat in the front row of the chairs assembled before her. The bespoke double-breasted suit and woolen trousers that he wore were certainly status symbols. Expensive, from the land of Mistral. A sibilant brand Alice couldn't pronounce was embroidered upon their silk-soft fabric. He made his way to her in lengthy, confident strides, the sound of hard rubber soles clashing with the ground echoing across the room. His lips contorted into a smile and his bright lapis eyes stared deeply into hers.

"We are honored to have you on the task force," announced the Johan, who extended a hand to shake hers. Alice's hands were as cold as ice; she did not smile or speak, rather, she chose to acknowledge him with a nod.

Johan was clean-shaven and wore an expensive brand of deodorant that lingered faintly in the air around him. He appeared to be no older than fifty, perhaps forty-five. A merry twinkle held in his eyes, and he beamed a disarming smile.

Alice had heard of this man before, but she had never seen his face. Over the past years, he had been the recipient of several prestigious grants and awards from the Atlesian Government. A living legend within his field of study.

Upon entering the room, she had also noticed him conversing animatedly with the other researchers in the room. He was charismatic, quite intelligent, and outgoing. It had now become obvious why the general had chosen him as the director of this task force.

"Miss Alice, Johan will introduce you to the other members of your team after this meeting," said the general. His face had returned to the stoic canvas it once had been, and Alice took a seat in the front row of exquisitely designed chairs.

Ironwood exchanged glances with the Specialist, who had, without a sound, marched up to his right where he stood at attention.

"I'm sure that most of you have already noticed the presence of First Specialist Augustus White. He, along with Special Operative Winter Schnee here, who you've already met, has been selected as the supervisors of this task force for the duration of its existence."

The atmosphere shifted, slightly.

They looked at him, all twenty of the experts who had gathered in the room. Augustus exchanged glances with Winter, who bore a solemn expression on her face. Her eyes darted to his, and the Schnee gave a slight nod of approval. He looked at the scientists and engineers.

Their smiles were faint, but polite, though Augustus already knew their first impressions of him. As a graduate of Atlas Academy, the very fact that he was a mere Specialist instead of a Special Operative affirmed the notion that he was undeserving of the place he had in this elite task force, let alone their respect. To the vast majority of the experts, he was undeserving of their compliance, let alone respect.

Alice sighed inwardly. A wave of pity rushed over her, but she did not have the means to express this. She exchanged glances with the Specialist, and a smile creased his cracked lips. Ironwood cleared his throat and waited for the silence to return.

"I'll be brief. From what you all have gathered, I believe that an extraterrestrial invasion has already occurred."

There was a pause.

"A preliminary investigation of the unidentified object has been conducted by scientists in Vale. The materials used in the object's construction have been determined to be synthetic and alien in origin…Alien in the sense that it was not created by people on Remnant. Extremely sophisticated life-support technology was found on the object, as well as an extremely compact radio transmitter that does not seem to be functional. What is truly concerning is the fact that an extraterrestrial organism exited the object before the Valean detachment arrived at the scene. We also know that this organism is most likely human in appearance, but the similarities end there. Alice Lockwood has confirmed the extremely sophisticated and unique physiology of the organism through a series of simulations. The purpose of this task force is to formulate responses to any future developments related to the incident using the technical knowledge of the experts."

The general paused. A sigh escaped him. The speech was long but necessary. Some of the researchers began to fidget midway through. Others began to read things on their scrolls.

"As of today, you will suspend all research, regardless of their importance. You will all receive your salaries as usual. More information will be provided on your itinerary sheets. We will meet here again at 0900 hours tomorrow morning, and you all must be prepared to conduct research on the unidentified object. That is all. Dismissed."

Silence lingered in the air as the researchers got up to leave. The awkward shuffling of coats and pants and the hasty scraping of fabric across edges smooth and rough. The blast doors withdrew from one another, allowing the passage of the researchers out of the office.

"Augustus. A word, please."

The Specialist stopped, dead in his tracks. He turned around stiffly, and the general seemed to have caught wind of this.

"It's nothing serious, Specialist Augustus. I would just like to have your opinion on a few things"

The Schnee remained by Ironwood's side. Augustus marched up to the Specialist, carrying himself with a relaxed, but alert, gait.

"Yes, General?"

"James," corrected the general. "Is what my friends call me. We'll be working closely from now on, so you'll have to call me that."

"Of course, James. What seems to be the matter?"

"I don't know where to begin. Tensions are rising across the kingdoms due to this. Every kingdom wants a piece of the technology found on board that thing. The Valean Council mostly believes that they should be given ownership of the object because it landed in Valean territory."

The general paused as if beckoning for the Specialist to state his opinion.

"If I may, General…I mean, James. Atlas is far more technologically advanced than any of the other kingdoms. Its scientists and engineers are the finest in the Remnant. Therefore, we have a higher chance of understanding the technology from the object as compared to the other kingdoms. Atlas could, if possible, replicate the technology and gift it to the kingdoms, much like the CCT."

The general smiled. He exchanged glances with Winter, who nodded in approval. A few seconds elapsed before he spoke.

"Interesting. Our preliminary investigations on the object's technology and the traces of life discovered upon it have vastly increased our knowledge base in a far shorter time than the researchers from the kingdoms, particularly knowledge of the life-support systems found in the object's hull. This technology could be modified and replicated for medical uses. Is that what you were hinting at?"

A short pause as Augustus gathered his thoughts.

"That's how it's meant to be…in theory, at least."

Ironwood's smile grew wider.

"Ever since the crash, reporters have lined the outer walls of Atlas Academy. I am sure you have seen them. They demand more information. Naturally, we will not disclose everything. How do you decide between releasing or withholding the information?"

Augustus thought for a while.

"Well, we now know that the organism has extensive human features, right? That means that it could easily blend into a crowd. Releasing such information has a high chance of causing panic in the populace, which, of course, attracts Grimm. Information that should not be released causes panic," he said, all while attempting to maintain a calm façade.

"A textbook answer, Specialist, though not necessarily incorrect. You have…impressed me with your competence. You are dismissed."

"Thank you, General."

Standing at attention, they saluted each other, and Augustus marched out of the office.

By then, he could hear the hot blood pulsing in his temples.

* * *

**0748 hours, 4th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Valean Time**

**Western Sector, Commercial District, Vale**

The shark approaches the shoal.

The king is clothed in the livery of beggars.

Barely two days since his emergence from the false womb, he is about the size of a young Valean child.

He watches the creatures he now knows as Man. He knows now, with startling clarity, their language. He understood their language with an instinctual conviction.

But he needed more. More words. An unquenchable thirst for knowledge had plagued him from the time he awoke ten minutes ago. The urge outstrips his prioritization of food and water.

He looks around him.

The concrete jungle that stretches out and out away from him is composed fundamentally of metal, concrete, ceramics, and glass, materials that they have shaped into cuboid structures that offer protection from the elements. Interspersed throughout the insides of these curious little structures were all those little niceties that the creatures have constructed through a convoluted sequence of comfort-driven witticisms.

They are not 'natural', as opposed to the wilderness beyond the great city gates.

For ten minutes he has wandered the town, a monochrome figure in a kaleidoscope sea.

He recalled the time he awoke when the sun was already up.

To his left, as he discovered, was a set of old, stained clothes. A stained white shirt and a pair of slim-fitting black trousers, tailored for the dimensions of a ten-year-old. It was a little large, but the boy was not fussy. The tattered black cloth that had once been his blanket was now worn as an oversized cape that billowed behind him like smoke in the wind. A pair of old sandals now protected his feet from the harsh flooring used throughout the city.

To the good Samaritan who gave him these clothes, free of charge, he muttered a faint statement of gratitude.

The boy now looked upon the shops around him with great interest. Through their windows, he could see the multitude of bladed weapons, guns, and ammunition. The former reminded him of the time he injured himself on the sharp edges of the gestation pod.

He could tell that these things functioned by the same principle, but of course, they were far more complex and deadly than a jagged piece of adamantium.

He could see that there were many men and women in the shops. But what use did these weapons have in a safe environment such as this? If these weapons were not used to spill the blood of men, then who, or rather, what, were they trying to kill?

Such was the question that greeted the boy as he walked through the automated glass doors that guarded the entrance of the nearest weapon store.

This particular shop was one of the largest and most popular in the town. It was a multi-story shopping complex, similar in design to the massive Atlesian gadget stores.

It even contained a forge, where the best smiths that the corporation could hire worked to produce customized weapons.

As the boy entered the store, he was immediately doused in a blast of cool air. Surprised, he looked up and spotted a series of slit-shaped openings that fed out from the roof. To him, it was probably a clever device that propelled cool air in the direction of the entrance through means yet known to the boy.

The boy was greeted by the sight of several aisles that led through a labyrinth of shelves, each containing thousands of mechanical and electronic components.

The interior of the massive building was well-lit. Fluorescent tubes derived from the latest mercury-vapor technologies lined the ceiling with beautiful symmetry and precision. Unlike the rough, unsteady concrete and tar used with industrial blandness outside on the roads, the shop's flooring was a homogenous lattice of grey ceramic tiles.

Across the room, hung across the walls, were a multitude of swords, spears, shields, bows, guns, and other weapons that were beyond complicated to be classified in a single category of weaponry.

Their secrets were laid bare, even from a distance, by the boy's intuitive understanding of physics and logic. With even the slightest of glimpses, he understood the axioms that their functions were predicated on. He continued to stare at the weapons from the side of the store, unaware that some shoppers were glaring at him from all directions.

"Do you need any help?"

The voice of a female, gentle and warm, jolted him from his stupor. Seconds ago, he was frozen, as unmoving as a statue. Now he was very much lucid, having awoken from the brief period of intense concentration.

He turned to its source, and details emerged in nanoseconds.

It was a female human, an adolescent. She was relatively short, though slightly taller than him. Fast heartbeat, fair skin, silver eyes, and a head of long black hair with slivers of red interspersed throughout. Unlike the people around them, she seemed to be composed of the same colors. A black corset dress with long sleeves, a maroon cape, black leggings, and black boots. Something large and red and metallic was strapped to her waist behind.

He could hear the faintest tremble beneath the façade of concern. Uncertainty dressed in courage. The uncertainty that lurked in the depths of her subconscious was painfully obvious.

But he did not speak until seconds later. His tongue lacked practice — it struggled to form the ideas into words until finally, there was nothing but clarity.

"Yes. I am interested…in the location of the library. Can…you help…me?"

Still, the words were staggered, spoken with an unrefined drawl that, given the boy's apparent age, would indicate the obvious affliction of mental retardation.

The girl frowned at the strange child. Something was off about him. The way he spoke, the way he carried himself, and the way he looked.

His gaze was distant and mysterious, and yet it emanated a focus that was more coherent and concentrated than a laser. His physical features were highly unusual for a child in the sense that they were extremely refined and developed. He did not look Valean at all, which added to the confusion. His pupils were utterly black, darker than raw obsidian.

There was something about the boy that compelled her to offer him help. It was nothing that she would have done for any other boy on the street.

"Well, this isn't the library…it's the weapons store. The library's five blocks down that way," said the girl, pointing out of a large glass window to their left.

The boy found it odd that she took such a long time to formulate the response. But it came as no surprise; the same could be said of every conversation he had observed.

"Where are your parents?" she asked, a look of concern overtaking the doubt on her pale face.

"Pa-rents?"

"You mean…you don't have any parents?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh, sorry! I'm so sorry,' apologized the girl as a shade of scarlet filled her cheeks. The boy was puzzled by her display of emotion.

"What…are you sorry…for?"

"You're an orphan, aren't you?"

The boy simply stared out of the window. He did not know what to say. He knew the definition of the word, but it had never occurred that it applied to himself.

"I…do not understand."

"I see. Well, I'm sorry if I said anything wrong. Do you need me to bring you to the library?"

He averted his gaze towards her. He needed to get to the library. There was something odd about the circumstances of his birth. Asking the girl a few questions might aid him in his search for answers, but he did not want to give away too much information.

More extensive research could then be conducted in the library, which was the reason why he asked her for help in the first place.

"It would be good."

The girl smiled. He found it appropriate to return the gesture, and so he did.

"Come, this way."

She led him out of the exit, into the street where the smooth ceramic tiling transitioned sharply into brutal concrete pavement.

The girl stared at her young acquaintance, astonished as he walked with not the gait of a child, but an adult. There was something truly peculiar about the child.

His eyes darted around rapidly within their sockets, and he seemed to be deep in thought all of the time with an indecipherable scowl painted over his face. The boy's features exuded a charm that she could not quite understand.

And then, she made the mistake of looking directly into his eyes.

She felt the urge to do something that a mere stranger was undeserving of.

She felt the urge to kneel.

The titanic pressure bore down on her legs and knees, and she felt giddy as she stood in his presence. Against all odds, she managed to pull through.

He did not speak to her, only following her lead.

A long, stunned silence existed between the two as Ruby guided him through the streets, walking at a brisk, though relaxed pace.

"What…is your name?" asked the boy inquisitively after a few minutes of walking. At the first inklings of his voice, Ruby heaved a sigh of relief at the shattering of the stiff silence, but she panicked as the boy completed his sentence.

"What?"

The question had appeared out of nowhere. The boy did not look at her as they continued down the street.

"Your name," he reiterated, a little louder this time.

"Oh, um, I'm Ruby Rose."

"You are…Ruby Rose? What is your number?"

"I don't understand what you mean by number. Do you mean my scroll number? My name is Ruby Rose. I am Ruby Rose."

This new sliver of information greatly increased the likelihood of one of several hypotheses that the boy had ruminated over during the past two days.

A long pause.

"Scroll number?"

Another extremely odd question. How did he not know what a scroll number was?

"Um, do you know what a scroll is?"

"No," admitted the boy, "Not the one that you are likely referring to."

Ruby stopped dead in her tracks.

To be honest, she had never met an orphan before. She knew that there were plenty of them in the rural areas, but she never thought he did not know what a scroll was. Well, it would not hurt to let him know what a scroll was.

"No," reiterated the boy, who now stared at her quizzically. "Why have we stopped?"

"Well, this is a scroll. It can be used to send messages to others and call others." Ruby took out the device from her pocket, giving the boy a view of its screen and abilities.

The boy nodded his head in acknowledgement. "I understand."

He knew with honesty that he did not. But, given her apparent confusion, it would be better if he had not pursued the question further.

Ah, so that was a scroll. He had known of the existence of a certain metallic handheld device right from the beginning. He did not know with reductive precision how they functioned and as such his understanding of the mechanism of the scroll, or rather, the conglomeration of mechanisms that allowed a scroll to function the way it did, was incomplete.

And of course, he did not know that they were called 'scrolls'. A scroll was a piece of parchment, not a handheld gadget.

A homonym, or a word with a double meaning, it seemed.

Ruby smiled and pocketed the device. The gap of silence between them was soon filled by the noisy outcrop of city sounds.

Ruby had known by then that this was no ordinary child. He spoke faster than anyone she had encountered, replying at the instant she completed her sentence. He did so while his eyes flickered to and fro, their gazes resting on several locations in a matter of seconds. Sometimes, he appeared to be processing multiple trains of thought in tandem.

"So, what's your name?" asked the girl timidly. She looked at him, but the boy did not look back.

He searched long and hard for an answer, and in the end, there was only a single one that seemed appropriate. For him, at least.

"Eight," he said. "I am number eight."

There was a stunned silence between the two.

"Okay…but that's not a name. That's a number," said Ruby, uncertainty dripping off her voice.

"It is mine."

"How do you know that?"

He ignored Ruby, much to her chagrin. They continued to walk in silence. The boy heard the beating of her heart quicken and felt regret at answering that last question truthfully, as it seemed to have enlightened her with an ugly truth.

"Why have you asked me these questions? Why are you ignoring me?" protested the girl.

"I am just curious," said the boy mildly. The grey concrete façade of the public library came into view as they turned around another bend. It was a large building, five stories tall at least. Through dusty , yellow-tinted windows, the boy could see rows and rows of weathered old tomes that rested upon shelves of bare stainless steel. "And I cannot answer that question."

"You do this often?" asked Ruby, "I mean, why do you want to go to the library? Most people in Vale hate reading."

"I want to learn. I have from the moment I learned to speak," said the boy, a distant and solemn gaze set in his eyes.

"And who taught you to speak?" asked Ruby, a hint of disbelief engraved in the bedrock of her voice.

The boy did not answer. His tattered black cape flapped in the wind. The knell of his departure came in the form of human speech.

As they swerved round the bend, Ruby could swear that she saw a faint pinprick of light in the boy's obsidian eyes as the library came into sight.

"I will go to the library here onwards. Thank you, Ruby Rose."

"Well…good luck!" she chirped, waving him off. The boy returned the gesture and set off towards the distant library.

Newfound strength rushed to Ruby's legs as the silhouette of old clothes drew further, dragging its burden away. A puff of hot air escaped her as she sighed, shaking her head.

_What…was that?_

A voice from a nearby billboard caught her attention. A holographic screen broadcasting a live feed from the Vale News Network had seemingly materialized out of thin air. It was that time of the day again.

Ever since the unidentified object crashed into the Forever Fall forest, news channels across the Sanus, Anima, Solitas, and Menagerie have been abuzz with information about the discoveries a team of scientists from the four kingdoms have made. While little information has been made public, it was confirmed during a press conference that unauthorized travel between the kingdoms would be prohibited in the near future and that highly sophisticated technology resembling a life support machine was found on the unidentified object.

"Now on Vale News Network, this is Lisa Lavender bringing to you the latest news on the crashed unidentified object."

A small crowd had gathered around the holographic projection. The atmosphere that permeated the impromptu gathering was high-strung and tense, and Ruby could see that they were all carrying weapons. It was almost as if everyone was preparing for war. Almost everyone in the kingdoms knew that there was an alien loose in Valean territory.

"Now, on to the specifics. A team of Atlesian scientists and engineers, membership classified, have gathered extensive information on the unidentified object. Alien DNA was found on the unidentified object. Now, as many viewers already know, an alien organism exited the object before it was intercepted by the Atlesians. It was discovered during the preliminary investigations that the organism bears some resemblance to humans in form and structure, due to extensive genetic similarities."

A few gasps erupted from the crowd. Ruby could sense the tension rising in the air.

"While the creature bears a few similarities with humans on a superficial level, there are a multitude of anatomical and biological differences that separate the two. Several teams of huntsmen have been deployed by the Atlesian military to the Forever Forest in search of the creature, as it is suspected that it is still at large within the massive forest. Based on the limited information that the Atlesian government has released, several experts have arrived at the conclusion that the creature is possibly a representative of an intelligent extraterrestrial race. This conclusion is supported by the fact that highly sophisticated machinery was found…"

Ruby could listen no longer.

_Extensive genetic similarities._

_Several similarities with humans on a superficial level._

_Resemblance to humans in form and structure._

"On a side note, the task force has uncovered several mysterious inscriptions on the exterior of the unidentified object. The language inscribed on the object's metallic exterior bears an…unsettling similarity with our language. Several Atlesian experts have warranted the guess that these represent some kind of number."

The words rippled on and on in the oceans of her mind. A sea of synapses and electrochemical impulses cascades over another, converging towards a common goal in the primal language of cognition. The last straw fell at the mention of a numerical, and a terrible realization dawns on the girl Ruby.

_Wait._

The boy is not human.

She turns in the direction of the library.


	4. Chapter 4

**Authority**

**Uncle**

**Nightfall**

* * *

**1147 hours, 4th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Researcher Dormitory No. 3/19, Atlas Institute of Technology**

"What did he say to that?"

Augustus took a deep breath.

"A textbook answer. Though not necessarily incorrect."

"Though not necessarily correct," she repeated, "Trust the ones who wrote the textbook. Because they have won the approval of the common people, and therefore they are correct."

Augustus chuckled. "You know, for all those years I've known you, I've only heard you being sarcastic a few times."

Alice did not look up from the screen.

"What was he trying to say? Reverse psychology? That is why you do not use a textbook for military tactics and strategies. Everyone knows them. But what if they are used in an era in which the knowledge of said strategy has ingrained deep within the marrow of the zeitgeist? What if nobody cares about defending against said strategy because they know that others won't use it?" asked Alice.

Augustus sat on her bed, deep in thought.

"You're thinking too hard. He wanted me to be more original…creative would be the word. Even a ten-year-old could have come up with that!"

"True," replied Alice, "But the first one was fine."

Augustus snorted. "The first one was great, in theory. Imagine going up to the Valean council and saying: My people are smarter than yours and therefore we should have the object because we have higher chances of understanding its technology than you do!"

"Well, if they have any semblance of rationality, they will hand it over to us. The fact remains that we are only allowed to study the object in the Valean premises. We still are not authorized to bring it here, where the equipment is several orders of magnitude better than those at Vale. Already several limitations have been noticed. So that's a problem."

"Indeed," said Augustus.

"They lied. Partly. I told Ironwood everything I knew about the creature, every quantum of information I uncovered from the simulations. I told him that there was an extreme likelihood that the creature would have human features. I told him that it was 1.75 to 2 times larger than the average human. On the Vale News Network this morning they said that 'the organism bears resemblance to humans in form and structure, due to extensive genetic similarities'. They did not talk about the footprint that we found, which implies the certainty that the creature is entirely human, at least on a superficial level. You told Ironwood about the footprint, didn't you?"

"I did," came the reply from behind her. Alice cast him a sidelong glance.

"So, they did implement your idea. They lied in the press conference, to the people of the four kingdoms. They lied when they said things like 'The creature bears a few similarities with humans on a superficial level' and 'The organism bears some resemblance to humans in form and structure'. They lied, and they will lie again because lying is simply a means to an end to achieve the greater good," she remarked, recalling ad verbum the news broadcast that she had watched on her scroll in the morning.

"True. But it worked. No signs of civil unrest so far. Which indicates a lack of fear, which means no Grimm," remarked the Specialist. "For now, at least."

Alice looked at him, diverting her gaze from the screen of her computer. She rubbed her tired eyes, lifting her steel spectacles. She cleaned their oily nose-pads with a sheet of wet tissue paper and placed them back on her sharp nose.

"Yes. Of course, it worked, or rather, would work. Why wouldn't it? All of civilization has been structured so that demagogues and politicians can slip in a couple of adjectives to twist the meaning and connotations of their sentences to their fancy, all so that they can get away with it. The exploitation of the interrelatedness of language and emotion has existed since time immemorial, and it will follow Mankind to its grave due to our inability to evolve past such a defect," muttered the biologist, letting out a raspy sigh.

She looked back at her monitor and typed something out with the keyboard.

Augustus wished that he could empathize with his friend's idealism, but such things had to be suppressed the moment he joined the military.

"An excellent philosophical point, but it seems that the council has more pressing issues at the moment. The organism is still out there. Even though 76 percent of the forest has been searched, they have not found anything so far. They believe that the remaining 24 percent hold the answer. Though they did remark that there seemed to be much less Grimm in the forest than there was before the thing crashed into it. Also, they told me that they saw a bunch of footprints that fit the description of the ones at the crash site. And they were found rather close to the Commercial District," replied Augustus, scratching his chin, "But that means—"

"Let's not jump to conclusions," said Alice, cutting him off, "But you may be right. It could be in the city. Hmm, of course, it would be attracted to civilization. Bright lights, loud noises, the smell of food. Ironwood knows of this too. Plus…there are other reasons behind why I think it would be attracted to civilization," commented Alice, "Reasons which I will reveal later."

"Can't you reveal them now?" pleaded Augustus.

"All in good time. But frankly, I'm not sure as to what exactly is going on with the Grimm. They've never behaved this way in the past."

"But you're the leading expert on Grimm Physiology!" exclaimed Augustus with a hint of indignation in his voice.

"Physiology, not Ethology. You'd have to ask Dr. Dimitri for a more detailed opinion. I do have a few hypotheses. One is that it's…of course…killing the Grimm, hence the relatively low number of sightings," came the rebuttal from his friend.

"But just one creature? I don't think that's possible insofar as Grimm sightings have dwindled by 60 percent. After all, there are at thousands of Grimm in the Forever Fall forest," said the Specialist slowly, baffled by the conjecture.

"Of course, based on the erroneous assumption that the organism is killing them through conventional means, I would be wrong," said Alice, a sliver of amusement in her tone.

Augustus paused, thinking about the possible causes of the phenomenon. On the side note, he had already gotten used to these little insults that were interspersed throughout their dialogue. It wasn't an insult, to be fair. One's interpretation of the adjective leads to one's assumption of its intended purpose. And 'erroneous' was simply an accurate description of the assumption, and by extension, his train of thought that led to the formulation of the assumption. Such things were common whenever he conversed with her.

"I see. So you believe that it's killing them by spreading…diseases?"

"There are many other ways I can think of, but yes, there is a good chance that it's spreading diseases that affect Grimm. This possibility is the one that's most grounded in practicality," said Alice, "The Grimm can theoretically be killed by diseases, but they are immune to most, if not all native diseases due to aeons of immunological adaptation. However, like all multicellular lifeforms, they certainly can be extremely susceptible to foreign ones due to the absence of immunological memory."

"I see. Foreign antigens," replied Augustus.

Alice nodded slightly in concurrence.

"That is…one theory," remarked the Specialist.

"True. All this is dependent on the premise that the organism is killing Grimm," said Alice, "There are other possible reasons as to why their sightings have dwindled greatly after the incident."

"Well, aside from that, General Ironwood is mostly concerned that the creature is a biological weapon created by an extraterrestrial race," revealed Augustus. "The method of warfare depends on one's goals. If these extraterrestrials wanted to destroy us, they would have bombarded us with conventional weapons long ago. We'd have no chance of surviving such an attack. But that would ruin the environment, perhaps even render it inhospitable. Instead, they chose to use a biological weapon, which lowers the amount of unintentional damage to the environment. Or so he says."

"Hmm, I wouldn't blame him for thinking so. There is an overwhelming amount of evidence that points in that direction. I found large quantities of what appeared to be a novel RNA-guided DNA endonuclease in the amniotic fluid of the gestation capsule," muttered Alice absentmindedly.

"What?" blurted Augustus.

Tiredly, Alice scratched the messy mop of ink-black hair that flowed sloppily across her shoulders and looked at him. It was understandable that he did not know what that meant.

"Sorry. An artificially synthesized enzyme that was probably used for gene editing," explained Alice. Her voice was mellifluous with distraction, and nonchalance rose in it as she returned her gaze to the computer screen, reading.

"You have to realize that the chance for extraterrestrial life to bear a complete superficial resemblance to humans is infinitesimal. Therefore, the organism must have been designed by its creators, the actual aliens, to have human features — for purposes we can only presume to be espionage — but qualitatively different anatomy. For obvious reasons, such a notion is substantiated by the discovery of said enzyme," added the biologist, supporting her stance on the issue.

Augustus hesitated as he listened with full attention to his absent friend. It was a mouthful, and he had no idea how she was forming these sentences with such speed and precision while simultaneously reading an article. But it was all coming together now, in a framework of concepts — at least, that was his way of understanding.

"I see. How do you know that this enzyme is artificial? Based on what I can recall, pathogens are naturally equipped with restriction enzymes that provide a defense mechanism against viruses. We need to confirm that the artificial nature of this creature to accurately gauge the intentions of the organism's creators," he responded in a hurried tone.

Alice smiled. It was a rare occurrence.

"While the structure of the enzyme drew inspiration from some examples seen in nature, I noticed the presence of non-proteinogenic amino acids or amino acids that do not form naturally. It's also highly probable that the structure of the enzyme was optimized via computational methods and simulated evolution," explained the biologist softly as she stretched her limbs, yawning as her weak muscles tensed and fell. Augustus nodded in understanding.

"I see. How does one create an artificial enzyme?" he asked. Alice yawned again involuntarily.

"Of course, they're synthesized in a laboratory, but to design and simulate a protein…Well, you need to have a computer. A supercomputer, probably, for efficiency purposes. We have plenty of those in Atlas, some of which are capable of exaflop speeds, which is why we've been able to create them over the years," she explained quickly, seemingly hinting at something.

"So you're saying that this civilization possesses advanced computational abilities?"

"Such is this implication, yes," came the pleased reply, "That they probably have the equivalent of a supercomputer."

"So what's so special about this new protein? I mean, you use similar enzymes for gene editing, right?" asked Augustus curiously.

"It will make the process of gene editing much faster, cheaper, and easier. This is a discovery that will revolutionize the field of Genetic Engineering," she said.

"You comprehend its secrets?" asked the Specialist, seeking clarification.

Alice snorted in confidence. "Of course I do. Both restriction endonucleases and the novel enzyme see a specific sequence in the DNA and make a cut in the middle of the sequence. However, the part of the protein structure that determines which sequence to cut is permanent in the restriction endonuclease. Before we found this enzyme, I had to engineer a whole protein if I wanted to target a certain DNA sequence that I couldn't target with the enzymes I had at my disposal. But with this new enzyme, all I have to do is to create an artificial guide RNA sequence to target a once inaccessible site. Do you follow?" explained Alice, her voice a shrill raspy whisper that bled transient enthusiasm.

Augustus understood, and thought long and hard about the information he had available. As of now, he had no reason to believe that the extraterrestrial civilization responsible for the creation of the organism was a benevolent one. Neither was there any reason to believe that it wished to negotiate with the authorities on Remnant. So far, no sightings of other similar objects have been reported across the four kingdoms and Menagerie. That was extremely strange.

Alice turned around and poked him in the arm. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, yes, I know. I was just thinking. Due to this new piece of information, I believe that we have no reason to believe that the creators of this organism have any benevolent intentions. It looks more like the opposite," replied her friend hastily, snapping out of his stupor, "I have not gotten the chance to speak with the other members of the task force. It seems that they are all busy. Winter's supervising most of them. She told me that they found some kind of radio transmitter."

A radio transmitter? This new piece of information had been featured on the news in the morning, recalled Alice.

"Hmm…" she mumbled incoherently, "A radio transmitter? They haven't told me about that. Maybe there's another one on the organism itself. Like a tracker, but presumably, it can transmit radio waves over interstellar distances. As of now, Mankind's knowledge of the cosmos is extremely limited but growing. There is something that I found odd about the gestation capsule. Let's pretend that it was guided here, like a cruise missile, so to speak. It would have to have an engine to generate thrust. There were no engines on the gestation capsule."

Alice ruminated in perplexed silence. This was indeed one of the great mysteries surrounding the incident. Perhaps the thruster detached before it entered Remnant's atmosphere in a way such that it would remain in low-planetary orbit, out of sight. The reason they would do this was obvious — it would be disadvantageous for their technology to fall into the wrong hands if there was even a sliver of a chance that the primitives would understand the technology. She would have to consult the physicists and engineers to know whether the thrusters could be detached in such a manner.

A multitude of reasons, or rather, rationalizations, had been generated by the professional hairsplitters of the Atlesian Council. Rationalizations for what? Of course, in her minute online meetings with Ironwood and the Council _she_ had expressed the possibility that the organism was a biological weapon.

It appeared that the strategies of a superior extraterrestrial nation were well within the realm of human comprehension. The means they possessed to make them a reality were, alas, not.

Alice chuckled at the notion as she recalled her talks with the Council in crystal clearness.

The absence of an engine was certainly a major blow to her theory that the gestation capsule was a biological weapon or any theory that the object had been brought to Remnant deliberately for that matter. Someone clever had pointed that out during a meeting. She too knew.

"Right," replied Augustus, "No devices capable of generating thrust have been recovered from the Forever Fall forest. Anyways, the Valean Council decided to put the kingdom on lockdown an hour ago for matters of safety, based on the latest news that the creature has not yet been found."

"I've heard…How very clever of them. I've been corresponding with the Valean biologists. It seems that they have also run a few simulations of organogenesis and are equally perplexed by the organism's physiology. It appears that we hit a ceiling in terms of understanding, so to speak, the moment we try to study the creature's physiology. But as I've said before, the machines there are outdated. The rendering takes a much longer time, and the results are fragmentary. Ironwood is in a meeting with the Valean council as we speak, attempting to persuade them to give us the object. But, until we get a hold of the organism itself, my work here on genome analysis and simulated biology is done. The other experts have a lot of work to do on uncovering the secrets of the pod's technology."

"He is," confirmed Augustus, "And it seems like General Ironwood has told you of his plans to capture the organism."

"That would be the implication of what I just said, yes," came the reply, "Isn't everyone informed of the latest developments in Ironwood's plans?"

"Not all of it. I have not been informed as to exactly how he plans to capture the organism, though we can deduce that his reasoning behind the decision to capture the creature seems to be accepted by the Atlesian Council."

"Neither have I," added Alice, "When is the next meeting? James Ironwood plans to capture the creature. He believes that it is a biological weapon, and by extension, the act of sending it here is an act of war."

Several heartbeats later, Augustus spoke.

"Correct."

"Aha, knew it," chimed the biologist.

She could be so childish at times. Augustus stared at the ground, deep in thought.

"Most of the other experts from the task force seem to be proponents of the notion that the organism is a biological weapon. But some among them have raised concerns about the apparent lack of a hypothetical propellant device," revealed the Specialist. It was nothing unknown to Alice.

"Hmm, and to defend the view that the organism is a biological weapon sent here willingly by its progenitors, what would you say to that? Would you dare to boldly presume the actions of a superior civilization? How could you — with your human intelligence and human habits and human wisdom — ascertain their intentions and the justifications to said intentions?"

Augustus looked at her. She looked back at him quizzically. He had predicted from the start of this meeting that she would eventually say something like this.

"You're not wrong — from the outset, everything the task force had done was think of alien rationales in human terms, so to speak. We certainly cannot think of logic as a purely human construct. Certainly, the design of sophisticated technology such as that from the gestation pod requires the application of empirical first principles, i.e. the laws of the natural world. Factoring in the biological prerequisites for the perception of reality to be enabled and sensory information to be relayed through an analogue of the human nervous system into a control system, logic can be accessed after a certain threshold of intelligence is met."

He spoke slowly, choosing his words with a precision unmatched by most.

"Hmm," grunted Alice, nodding mildly in concurrence, "And how would you describe the ability to tap into logic at its various strata of sophistication?"

"Well, I'd say that a qualitative increase in the sophistication of deductive reasoning can be observed as we ascend the layers. As expected, more sophisticated reasoning cannot be performed by an entity that lacks the required neuroanatomy."

"Precisely my point," said Alice.

"But there is hope," interrupted her friend.

"What hope?" Alice countered, spitting her words bitterly as though they were blades. "Hope? I don't think you or Ironwood or the Schnee fully understand the gravity of this situation. These beings who have sent this thing here operate on a completely different mental plane of existence, so to speak. This isn't about the declaration of war. We have lived in willful ignorance about the cosmos, and the truth has now presented itself in the form of a civilization several orders of magnitude our superior."

Augustus heaved a tired sigh and closed his eyes. He rubbed his eyes in fatigue for a while. And then he spoke.

"That is what I feared all along. The incident may pose a great threat to the stability of the four kingdoms, but its implications are terrifying. You and I both know that we cannot live in willful ignorance of the bigger picture. But there is nothing we can do."

There were several function rooms throughout Atlas Academy. These were used for important events, such as press conferences and top-level meetings. Fortress-like, all of them.

"Alice, you haven't gotten to know your teammates. Perhaps you should consult them in matters," suggested the Specialist.

Alice flinched in surprise at the mention of her name and cast him a sidelong glance.

"I will when the time comes. The process is quite simple — conduct research on the object, report our findings back to Ironwood. There's no need for collaboration as of yet."

Augustus shook his head. "Not yet, but soon enough you will need to work with them. What's the time now? We've been talking for a while."

"Sure have. It's 12:29 A.M."

"1229 hours. I've been here for two hours," reiterated Augustus.

"So it would seem. Are you going now?" muttered Alice, who did not wait for a reply, "I'll be sure to tell the general in writing of the…discov-no…theories that we've made. Or would you rather tell him yourself?"

"It's alright. You may tell him," said Augustus mildly, "I'll get going now."

Alice grunted in acknowledgement. The Specialist got up, stretching his once placid muscles, letting out a satisfied groan. Alice heard the sinewy popping from her friend's neck to feet as he

"I can never understand why you choose to remain in this room, even though as a senior researcher you're entitled to the deluxe suite. It's always so cramped and stuffy in here, and your bed's so small," sighed Augustus, gesturing around the cold dark room as he stood up to leave. His protestations were always in vain. For more than a decade had he known Alice, and she was quite the creature of habit.

"I'm not sure. It feels wrong to leave the room when I've known it for years. Besides, why would I need a larger bed if I'm the only one who sleeps on it?" replied Alice, much to her friend's chagrin.

Augustus looked at the woman, studying her hunched form slowly. Dots of dried coffee and other less-than-pleasant fluids stained her white pajama pants. Her skin was pale, as always, and a fine network of veins propagated outwards underneath the skin of her cold hands. Flecks of dandruff stared back at him like stars in the night from her unwashed black hair.

_If General Ironwood knew about the footprints near the Valean border, he would undoubtedly request copies of the surveillance footage of the border wall. But did he know? Augustus remembered telling the Schnee about this snippet of information, and it was highly likely that she had already told the General about this._

_He had already advised the General to request for a list of all persons entering Vale from the Forever Fall border. They knew that it was with extreme certainty that the creature completely resembled a human, at least superficially. A young boy, aged anywhere between seven and nine, judging by the clear footprints it left behind. Unfortunately, any toeprints left behind by the creature could not be distinguished — for obvious reasons._

_This sliver of advice was, to Augustus' supreme elation, heeded by the General._

Whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, Augustus was terrified. In some private corner of his mind, the fear that humans have always been insignificant on a universal context had always been gnawing away at him. This incident was the catalyst, the last straw on the camel's back, so to speak.

"You've been looking at me for the last three minutes, Specialist White."

The raspy voice freed the Specialist from his cogitative stupor, and his keen electric-blue eyes focused on Alice once again.

"I've never heard you call me that. Sorry, I was thinking."

"If you say so. And I'm sure that I've called you that a couple of times before, Specialist White," said Alice, this time with a slight mocking in her tone.

"I was thinking of something important. Stop calling me that. It's annoying when you do so."

"What were you thinking of?" replied Alice, singsong, in a tone that implied neither a question nor a statement. With ten long and dirty nails, she pulled away from the thick cascade of hair her forehead that sheened with oil and perspiration, letting it flow down the sides of her shoulders. She lifted her spectacles from their anchors, from the bridge of her nose and the backs of her ears, and cleaned their sweat-stained lenses with a fine cloth.

Augustus shook his head.

"Never mind. Set an alarm for 18.30. There's a meeting at 1900 hours with the research division of the task force."

"And you will be leaving now?" asked the biologist.

"Winter told me to accompany her in supervising the other researchers. I'm tired. Could use an afternoon nap right now."

Augustus yawned groggily.

"Hmm…Okay," replied Alice.

The Specialist made his way towards the exit, his sock-padded feet making no sound against the carpeted floor, careful not to step on any of the dirty clothes strewn across the ground.

* * *

**The Boy Who Would Be King**

**0916 hours, 4th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Valean Time**

**Vale Public Library, Commercial District, Vale**

It was silent in here for the most part.

Rosa knew each of the regulars by name.

The library was, after all, where she worked daily from seven in the morning to nine in the evening. For twenty years she had patrolled the old labyrinth religiously. This place was falling apart. Funding authorized by the Valean Council had been the lowest for the fourth year in a row. It wasn't enough to repair the rotten floor and the myriad other material problems that emerged daily, let alone rekindle the stagnated flow of new books into the library's dwindling repository, and soon enough, the library will be consigned to the dustbin of history.

But Rosa did not know the name of this child.

He was not a regular — he had only shown up roughly an hour ago.

He was rather tall for a child of his apparent age, but there was nothing unusual about that. Many Valeans were tall, but he did not look Valean at all. His unblemished skin was toned an Atlesian white, and he was slender, so very slender. His skin was as pale and white and smooth as marble, and his black eyes glowed so very fiercely like fire released from the depths of opal by a carver's skillful hand. But his clothes were tattered and dirty, and the boy's lank black hair reached his shoulders — unusual for someone who she presumed to be Valean by ethnicity. But then again, everything about this child was, at the very least, unusual.

And yet, he was beautiful.

He was beautiful in a disquieting manner.

In all her fifty-seven years of living Rosa Lowenthal had never seen so finely formed a child.

His face lacked the dull, indecisive features that homogenized the child populace. It was chiseled and fine and stood out from the crowd like a sore thumb — an intoxicated scientist would have pointed out it was the product of elaborate design rather than desultory evolution. His long fingers and limbs moved with unnatural grace and swiftness, and Rosa could see the steely fibers of lean muscles scaled with a precision that was undeniably mathematical in nature underneath his long legs and arms…

But these features were so very…odd. The more she observed, the more felt the presence of something unmistakably massive in the form of the small child.

It appears the boy never blinked, not even once since stepping foot into the library. His countenance was myriad in all its interpretations, but to Rosa, it was so very indifferent to the surroundings. His statuesque, void black eyes could have been plucked from a statue of old.

Rosa was staring at a being whose material form had been crafted using techniques so esoteric that the unmodified mind could be driven insane for even an attempt at a cognitive appreciation, a piece of _art_ in the most figurative sense of the word, a living artwork that possessed the deathless beauty of a sculpture. She did not know this, of course, but she could not help but feel so very small, so very insignificant upon gazing into those eyes.

And yet, through it all, it was thoroughly impossible for her to look away from him.

He was beautiful, so very beautiful.

Rosa wondered who this boy was, and why she had never seen him before in the town.

His literary interests were equally peculiar — he was engrossed in _The Complete History of Remnant, 5th Edition_ , a book most commonly read by those ten years his senior.

Before that, he appeared to have read a textbook on anatomy and physiology. Whether he was simply looking at the pictures or actually reading the contents was unknown to her.

Even before that, he was reading a massive dictionary and had progressed by a quarter from the start before his interest seemingly waned. Rosa couldn't blame him for that.

The boy read a brisk pace, faster than some of the others in the library but not quick enough to elicit troublesome attention.

Inwardly, the boy who would be king sighed. A little more than an hour had passed since he entered the library. The more books he read, the more he craved. He had vastly increased his once basic vocabulary, and his understanding of the language's syntax had increased tenfold.

But he needed more. Agglomerated data poured through the newborn's mind; a maddening torrent of thought was channeled tangentially to the source on myriad levels of pure metaphor, symbolism, and analogy. On a neurological level, the impossibly complex architecture of the boy's mind differed as much from baseline humanity as they did from the earliest scions of the hominid family. The boy's constant feats of divergent, nonlinear thought and deductive reasoning were far beyond the reach of even the most gifted of human polymaths from the Old Federation.

The boy closed the book, sending up a puff of dust from between its thick faux-leather binding. The historian's tone was annoying, and his conclusions were far from the perfection that he had expected. Nevertheless, the massive compendium was a truly useful repository of information. He had not finished it — he could, if he wanted to, but a young boy absorbing a thousand pages of dense historical text in a few minutes would surely raise several red flags among the staff. As such, he read only the chapters that contained the most useful information.

The boy hungered for more knowledge.

He needed to know why the girl Ruby's scroll — or any electronic device for that matter — functioned, or rather, _how_ they functioned. But there were no such books in this library. It was merely out of sheer luck that he uncovered a tome containing information on the subject known as 'biology', or the study of living organisms.

These creatures of his kind, they were not born from cold, indifferent husks of metal, but from warm, caring mothers. They were not assigned a number at birth. While his wounds healed in an instant, theirs took days without the help of a mysterious power called 'Aura'.

His stealthy observations of the other readers in the library yielded a similar truth — while it took him an instant to absorb the knowledge printed on a page, a subjective eternity passed before the creatures flipped the page. That was the reason why he chose to read at such a slow pace — he'd figured that sticking out like a sore thumb was rather dangerous at this stage.

Physiology — the definition of this word was not unknown to him. In this sense, was he different from the creatures? He certainly looked exactly like them, but the boy was certain deep down that he was simply wearing their skin. It was rather obvious that he was a breed apart, but he was united — with them — by virtue of belonging to the same genus.

The boy thought long and hard in sad, solemn silence as his gaze glazed over the page. He sat on the chair, perfectly still as he stared off into a distant corner of the library.

This world…Remnant, or so its inhabitants named it, had five kingdoms:

Atlas, known for being a bastion of technological innovation and military values.

Vale, known for the safety it offered its residents from the threat of Grimm.

Mistral, known for its diverse culture and art.

And Vacuo, known for its relative anarchy and lack of a true government.

Kingdoms were organized communities governed by a Council, individuals who were trusted with legal authority.

_Authority_

The concept intrigued the boy. What right did these people have to bend others to their will? Or so he asked at first. But for as far as the eye could see the boy saw the fruits of formal governance. There was order, relative peace, and safety against the creatures of Grimm. Without the metaphorical glue of formal governance and law and order, the life of man would be nasty, brutish, and short.

These things were the most apparent, and the boy saw that the leadership of the council was good, for the most part.

But there was another problem. The members of the council that governed the Kingdom of Vale were decided through an electoral competition. The common man, woman, and child would argue that this method of entrusting immense power into the hands of a select few was fair and therefore just, but there were glaring flaws in this system. Irrational electorates could easily be tricked into voting for a demagogue by the latter's populist rhetoric. The average man and woman, unenlightened of the sheer complexity of science and mathematics, could be easily tricked by a demagogue presenting a flawed, oversimplified analogy in substitution of the truth. With the advent of technology, consumers of information — the laymen and laywomen — propelled in the pursuit of simplicity and the discount of cognitive effort, are faced with myriad options to secure knowledge, albeit, knowledge adulterated by the oversimplicity of analogy, thus leading to a lack of in-depth understanding.

There were myriad other problems that the boy could think of, but will _they_ listen to him?

The boy wondered if the humans knew of these potential problems. It was possible that they were fully aware but failed to act as they reaped the benefits of the current system. Whatever the case, the boy needed more information. But try as he might, the boy could not shake off the feeling that the system was _wrong_ , and needed correction.

There was a nagging thought in a secret corner of his mind. He had been thinking about this for a long time now, along with the contents of the book, of course.

It was about the public broadcast he'd heard roughly an hour ago.

Yes, that was right after he bade farewell to the girl Ruby. He did not realize it then, of course. The polysyllabic jargon was alien to him.

But not anymore.

It had been an update for an incident involving a crashed, unidentified object. The boy knew that it was only logical to assume that it referred to the metallic case that he escaped from days ago. Apparently, they were able to study his DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid, something he recalled reading about ten minutes ago. They also knew that he bore some resemblance to him, though there was no mention that he looked exactly like them — which he did. That was a good thing.

The hunt was on, it seemed. Or rather, to use a gentler euphemism, they were searching for him.

The boy remembered what he'd said to Ruby. He told her his name. He was number eight.

It was the only answer that seemed right. He should not have said that. Though he had not considered it at the time, it was likely that there must have been something odd he did during the journey from the gun store to the library. Every one of her words was laced with an emotion he knew all too well.

It was possible that she hadn't given it much thought. Then again, it was unwise to underestimate her intelligence. She might have caught on to several irregularities in his speech, his behavior, his name, and deduced that he was the creature that the broadcast had referred to. The information she possessed was priceless, and if she had told the authorities, it would have been a game-changing lead for them. It was strange, therefore, that nobody had attempted to capture him.

The instant the notion emerged, he found himself somewhere else. The antique bookshelves, the rotten floor, the old oak table, and the mild stuffy air — they were gone.

The library is plunged into darkness. Empty. Silent. _Infinite_ in size, but it was never euclidean in the first place.

_The mind of a being that never was and never will be._

_The light returns, but his surroundings are different._

_The laboratory is well-lit and spacious. Fluorescent tubing lines the ceiling, and white corrosion-proof ceramic tiles are the floor's only components. Delicate machinery had been propped up on gray ceramic tables, and the boy's eyes caught hold of a gigantic vat that stood at one far corner of the room._

_The boy-who-would-be-king saw himself, though not quite himself, strapped tightly onto a cold steel table, back faced down. His skin is paler than ever._

_The boy who would be king is dead. His heart has stopped. His face was contorted in an agonized rictus._

_Through means unknown, the creatures of his kind had devised a means to end him without leaving a single scar on his body._

_On the surface, at least. His heartbeat quickened. Adrenaline spiked his blood._

_He recognizes the table as a scaled-up analog of the ones he saw in the biology textbooks, the ones used in the dissection of large animals. His arms are splayed out into a fallen crucifix_

_The boy's eyes caught hold of a gigantic vat that stood at one far corner of the room. It is filled with blood. His blood._

_The boy's eyes scanned the room in an instant. Beside the simulacrum, there was a young woman in the room. She gazed upon the cadaver through a pair of cold obsidian eyes. The attire of a scientist dresses her pale and thin body. A proprietary lab-coat, a pair of vinyl gloves, and a pair of safety goggles. Her black hair was tied into a sloppy ponytail. The acronym AIT was emblazoned over the breast pocket of the old lab coat._

_The Atlas Institute of Technology. The boy had read about the state-owned university in his studies. Established before the Great War, it has been to date the most prestigious university on the planet._

_Wielded skillfully in her right hand was a sizeable scalpel. Its obsidian blade tapered down into nanometer fineness, and its killing edge caught the reflection of the ceiling light._

_She was slicing him open. Three deep incisions were made bloodlessly across his belly as the silvery blade cleaved through impossibly dense layers of abdominal muscle. A single straight incision from the boy's septum to his bladder, and two more at its vertices for the woman to better pry his guts out._

_Every incision the woman makes against the cadaver's flesh hurts him. He does not know how, or why. Logic rebelled at the very notion that he should feel physical pain at the simulated slicing of nonexistent flesh. The boy clutches his belly as it aches and aches as the scalpel slices through his mind like a flame to a nociceptor._

_The boy watched until he could do so no longer. He is terrified. The scene was making him sick. He fought back the tears in the real world as the pain transfigures his reality._

* * *

**0820 hours, 4th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Western Sector, Commercial District, Vale**

Ruby hesitated at the doors of the library.

If her theory was true, the best thing she could do was to inform the police. But then again, nobody would believe in her story that a shape-shifting alien was currently in the library.

And what if she confronted him, herself, and herself only? She certainly had Crescent Rose, and she was, perhaps, one of the best fighters in her class at Signal Academy. While armed, at least. She remembered visiting the library when she was just a child. It wasn't extremely spacious, and if a fight did break out, she wouldn't have the liberty of using Crescent Rose to her maximum potential.

If the boy was indeed an alien, it was highly probable that he was some sort of spy. Why else would he be headed towards the library?

Her heartbeat quickened, and she backed away from the doors of the library. The broadcast echoed in the background, over the tense crowd. Ruby nudged her way out of the crowd, the blood hammering in her temples.

 _No, no. This can't be_ , she thought. _How could an alien have learned to speak? It couldn't have…known the language, could it? And he looked like a six, seven-year-old! The thing crashed what, two days ago? This can't be right. But then again, it could have been grown wherever the aliens are, and its creators must have been able to teach it our language._ _Yeah, that sounds about right…I guess._

_But…what he called himself. Number eight. Even the experts seem to think that a number was engraved on the object's exterior! Shit, shit, shit! What am I supposed to do?_

Ruby inhaled deeply. She began to calm down, but the turmoil remained within. So many voices, so many conflicting arguments.

_Think, think! Call a grown-up!_

She backed into an alleyway, away from the crowd. Taking out the scroll from her pocket, Ruby dialed a number she knew by heart.

_Hurry up! Quick!_

The person on the other side took several seconds to pick up. His background was noisy — Ruby heard the blaring of loud music in the background — as always.

"What is it, kiddo?"

The man's voice was deep and gruff. It was as though he had just awoken.

"Uncle Qrow! Do you know about the crashed object?" said Ruby, keeping her voice low.

The sound of the man sitting up in his bed flooded the speakers of her scroll.

"That information's two days old. Of course, I know. Get to the point, or I'm getting back to sleep. It's a precious weekend, kiddo. Where are you, anyway?"

"Actually…never mind about that. I'm in the Western Sector. Can you come down here? There's something I need to tell you."

"What? Why?"

Ruby sighed. Beads of perspiration trickled down her forehead. She was unsure and afraid of what might happen by going down this path. But she trusted her intuition. If the boy truly were human, the damage would be minimal. But if he wasn't…well…

"Just…come over!"

"Okay, okay…just give me fifteen minutes."

Qrow Branwen ended the call.

He was unsettled by the panicked undertone in his niece's voice.

And it wasn't over something as silly as forgetting her weapon's license at home. It was something awful, as though she had gotten into a major accident. Furthermore, why she brought up the incident was a mystery to him. Was it a conversation starter? Then again, Ruby wasn't known for doing such a thing. She usually went straight to the point, which didn't sit well with most people.

Whatever it was, it was something serious, and it required the help of a huntsman.

 _Fifteen minutes later_ , Qrow Branwen had traveled from one side of the Western Sector to the other. He now stood at the coordinates that Ruby had sent him, waiting.

"Uncle Qrow! Over here!" whispered a familiar voice from the left of him. It had come from the alley, and Qrow turned to look at his niece.

"What?" asked the huntsman, visibly annoyed. His breath stank of cheap whiskey from last night.

"Come here!" repeated Ruby frantically.

Qrow could tell that she was scared. Anxious, to use a better word. He followed her into the alleyway. It was dark and cold inside, but he could still make out the outline of his niece.

Ruby explained to him everything that had happened since she saw the child in the weapons store. Surprisingly, Qrow listened closely to every word she had said and nodded with newfound understanding when she was done.

"I…see," said Qrow.

"Everything about him was so weird! The way he moved, the way he spoke…but that's not all…there was something about him that I just can't properly express in words!"

Ruby was practically breaking down at this point. Qrow could tell that she was serious about this, but her story was rather unbelievable. He had never seen the child she spoke of, and so he could not verify the extent of his 'otherness'.

"Hmm…are you sure he's still inside the library?" asked Qrow.

"Yeah, I've been watching the door for fifteen minutes now. There aren't any other exits," said Ruby.

Qrow nodded.

"Well…"

Qrow looked to the ground in contemplative silence.

"Well what?" asked Ruby.

"I don't think this is a good idea, kiddo."

"What? Why?"

"Based on what you told me, there isn't any real evidence to conclude that the boy you speak of is the alien. But listen, don't tell anyone I told you this, okay?"

Ruby nodded her head, and her uncle continued in a hushed tone.

"Ironwood's given me key intel about the situation."

"Ironwood? James Ironwood, General of the Atlesian Military and Headmaster of Atlas Academy? How do you know him?" asked Ruby, visibly intrigued.

"That's not important. What is important is that the trackers he employed are still searching for the alien. They haven't found it yet, but they did find footprints near the bordering wall between the Western Sector of the Commercial District and the Forever Fall Forest. Also, unlike what the news told you, Ironwood knows that the creature looks, at the very least, exactly like a human," explained Qrow.

"Then why don't you believe me?" asked Ruby.

"It's not that I don't believe you, it's because we just can't be sure yet. Jimmy's subordinates are still reviewing the surveillance camera footage from the wall and the guard posts," said Qrow.

"Then what can you do?" asked Ruby.

"Nothing at the moment, but I'll make sure to be on the lookout for the person you described. Jimmy's also checking the lists of entrants at the checkpoints from the last two days. I'll tell them to check for the person fitting the description you gave, and then we'll develop from there. At least you provided a lead — thanks to you they'll now have something to search for," said Qrow.

"So what will they do once they find someone matching the description on the list?" asked Ruby.

"I don't know. It's classified. But obviously, they'll narrow down the valid surveillance footage to those depicting him. That's tracking 101. Then we get on to the more advanced techniques, which they'll probably use a lot," said Qrow. Ruby often forgot that her uncle was an elite amongst elite huntsmen, a profession in which the art of tracking was a key part of. Perhaps it was his frequent alcohol consumption that lowered his intelligence and caused his speech to slur, but beneath Qrow's brutish and disheveled façade was a keen and perceptive mind.

"Perhaps they'll ask him for a genetic sample, after searching for him — if they find him at all, of course," explained Qrow. "But that's the obvious stuff. Jimmy has many tricks up his sleeve — and he's not afraid to use them for the betterment of Atlas."

"Yeah, obviously," said Ruby. Qrow ignored her poor attempt at sarcasm. "And what if they do find him?"

"Hmm, probably they'll ask him a few questions, given that he speaks — assuming he's the boy you're talking about. They're not stupid — he's obviously from a…technologically superior civilization, so they'll ask him why he's here instead of killing him. Unless he tries to fight," said Qrow. His voice trailed off ominously, and he took a swig of gin.

"He told me his name was number eight."

"What? Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Qrow suddenly seemed more attentive now — his once slack brows were set in deep furrows, and his dull vermillion eyes regained their sharpness.

"Sorry…I forgot," apologized Ruby. She could be a little scatterbrained at times.

"Shouldn't have told me after I drank…hnghhh. Well, there's something new. I'll tell Ironwood. Meanwhile, go home," said Qrow.

"What? Go home? Why?"

"Hnghhh…things are about to get real hairy."

* * *

**Night, 4th Axial Rotation of Vale, Atlesian Time**

**Western Sector, Commercial District, Vale**

The boy who would be king slept not in a palatial bedroom but on the cold concrete floor of the alleyway. The unyielding floor was coarse and damp and reeked of filthy rainwater. Things moved in the shadows, and the boy could hear them feasting on their dead kin.

A child would be hard-pressed to fall asleep in this place, this shadow of the metropolis, this ossuary of dreams.

Sleep came easily, but the same could not be said for hunger.

The boy was hungry. For all its mystical properties, the boy's body could not violate the laws of thermodynamics. He understood these laws well and could have held a lecture on the subject, but for now, all he was interested in was their consequences.

The hunger had been ever-present. It had been a mere annoyance at the time of the boy's entry to the library, but now it was practically unbearable. His stomach coiled around itself in long, agonizing loops, snarling, snarling, snarling with need. His body was not breaking even.

It would be so easy to steal the fruits and warm pastries from the vendors on the street. He knew he could outrun them several times over, and that his strength easily surpassed that of the average citizen. But it would be wrong — to do so would be an act of injustice.

So the boy waited. Sleep came for him soon enough.

_There was a voice. Lulling. Honeyed. Mellifluous with warmth._

_Warmth that disguised an unplumbed insanity._

_There were several. Where was he?_

_The boy remembered. He remembered the library and the vision he had._

_An alleyway. Darkness. Black and infinite._

_The boy saw them at first glance. They were faint, spindly silhouettes, cut out from the shadows of the shophouses. They moved like water, too fluid to be human, too fast for the human eye to follow. The otherworldly sweetness of their voice turned to bitterness, and then pure disgust as the boy felt their eyes laid upon him._

_Twelve of them stepped into the moonlight, circling him in mesmerizing synchrony. Around and around him they danced, cursing in the eloquent sibilance of a tongue he could not understand._

_The needle sang as it sliced the cold air—_

— _his eye catches the glint of the dark crystal, and the boy turns away as it sings just shy of his throat._

_Another came. The boy evades it again, but it makes the shallowest of wounds upon his tender skin._

_The boy wants to scream, but he could not. The pain carves up his mind like a hot knife to a nerve. The pain is immediate, stabbing, ruthless as the neurotoxic concoction spreads to every corner of his body in a heartbeat._

_The boy fights back the pain, but another needle strikes him. This time, it hits him full in the chest. The pain is indescribable; it lashes out at his body unreservedly, forcing the boy to his knees, begging that it would all end quickly._

_The voices grow louder, that same smooth, oily sibilance. The laughter grows louder as his vision fades into blackness. There is a new voice, more beautiful than the rest by far._

_Grand, voluptuous, mellifluous with grace. It speaks in a language more primal than any the boy has ever heard. It was the emanation of base concept, the moment of emotion in all its myriad iterations, a word that was both a name and a concept at once._

_Slaanesh!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Preysight**

**Night**

**Duel**

* * *

**0115 hours, 5th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Makeshift Command Center, Atlas Academy**

"There it is, Operative Schnee."

The assistant's words were both a blessing and a curse.

"Show me," said Winter, her voice the sound of distant thunder as it echoed across the function room. Her boots clicked against the polished vinyl tiles as she strode towards monitor 2C3. The monitors in the room had been set up such that they corresponded to the actual monitors on the Western Sector's border wall.

"There," said the assistant, pointing towards the paused image. Her voice was high-strung with excitement. "There it is, at 2011 hours, nine seconds."

Winter's icy gaze fell on the pale white outline of the boy. He was climbing, climbing the forty feet high walls.

"How is it doing that?" Winter's voice spiked with incredulity.

The assistant shrugged. "I don't know, Operative Schnee."

"And how did it get past the motion detectors installed there years ago? Surely the VPD would have been alerted to the presence of the creature if it had been detected by the sensors?" said Winter, pointing towards the sea of lights that blanketed the outside of the wall, directed towards the dark forest of red.

"It's simply impossible to get to the wall without being detected by the sensors," she declared.

"Here's how," said the assistant.

She reminded the footage to 2010 hours, fifty-one seconds. Moments later, the immediate area was plunged into darkness. The night vision of the surveillance cameras worked decently, and Winter could see a blur of movement headed straight for the wall, right before the lights switched back on. But the boy was already on the wall, and he was already three meters above the ground.

Winter was taken aback by the turn of events.

"That's…odd," she said. "Switch to camera 2C4, same time."

The lights were off too, but like before, the camera captured the image of the boy dashing across the ten-meter fog of darkness by virtue of its night-vision abilities.

"Camera 2C5, same time," said Winter.

The lights remained on.

_What the heck was going on?_

The specialist fought back the urge to curse.

"Back to camera 2C3, 2011 hours and nine seconds."

Winter watched the boy climb the vertical wall; all forty feet of rough concrete that had been worn down over the years. Soon enough, he reached the top and disappeared over the ledge.

"Clip that footage, beginning from 2010 hours and forty-five seconds, and ending at 2011 hours and forty-nine seconds. I expect it within my inbox in three minutes," commanded the Specialist.

"Yes, Operative Schnee."

"Attention, please," said Winter over the microphone. "The location and time of the intrusion have been confirmed. You are all dismissed."

There were a few relieved sighs from across the massive hall. The assistants had been pulled from the ranks and file of the Atlesian Military to review the footage. This was meant to be an off day, but then again, they would do anything for extra pay.

Winter Schnee heaved a sigh of relief. Now that the search had been narrowed down to the Commercial District of Vale, things were progressing at a much smoother rate than before. The current shift had lasted for more than three hours, beginning at ten o'clock the previous day. It would last for roughly two more, ending at three o'clock in the wee hours of the morning. Sufficient biometric data could be collected by the image of the creature, and the next phase of Ironwood's plan could be set into motion.

Winter stepped into a far corner of the function room and dialled the General on a secure telephone line.

"Yes, Winter?"

"Found it, General. Monitor Seven. The intrusion occurred at roughly 2010 hours, third of Joo'Lie," reported Winter. "I'll be sending you the footage shortly after I receive it from the assistant."

"How did it get in?" asked Ironwood.

"It climbed the walls. It probably slid down on the other side to enter the city," said Winter.

"So you're telling me that…it managed to climb a vertical wall that was forty-feet high?" exclaimed Ironwood. His voice had a strained, tired undertone, the voice of a man who had slept for a measly three hours over the past seventy-two.

"I don't know _how_ , General," said Winter. "But that appears to be the case. It was possibly due to the existence of many indentations that formed over the years, as well as the organism's small size, allowing it to take advantage of these flaws."

"I see."

James calmed down. The sound of deep breathing diffused through the microphone, and he cleared his throat.

"If my memory does not fail me, I believe there are motion detector lights aimed towards the outside of the wall. Once the sensors are triggered, an electric signal is relayed to the VPD stations as well as the nearest guard post, where it will trigger an alert," said Ironwood.

"That would be the case, General. Panoramic cameras fitted within the motion detector lights would be activated once something is detected. The cameras will immediately take a picture of the object, and the digital data will be passed through an object recognition algorithm. If a human, Faunus, or Grimm is detected, people in the guard post or the various police stations will be alerted to its presence at the corresponding wall segment," said Winter.

Ironwood smiled inwardly. The magnitude of Winter's devotion to her duty never ceased to surprise him. Her attention to detail, the depth of her memory, and her fierce loyalty to the military were attributes that set her apart from most.

"Commendable, Operative Schnee. So how did it get in without being detected?" asked Ironwood.

"The motion-sensing lights…were turned off. Along with the cameras, apparently. They were turned off right before the creature approached the wall."

A long pause.

"What?"

Winter could not detect any hints of strong emotion in that blank, mirthless voice. There was only disbelief.

"That...is not possible. How could it be turned off?"

"We don't know yet. Here's the footage," said Winter as she sent the recording to the general.

Silence filled the call as James viewed the footage for the first time. He observed the fleeting image of the creature that flickered across the screen in an instant. Ironwood paused the video, and there it was.

Every muscle was suspended in agonizing tableau. Time had come to a halt, and Ironwood's gaze fell upon the creature's pale body. It was the naked form of a boy child, suspended mid-air in a perfect posture any sprinter could only dream of attaining, a boy child born of a living God. Lean muscles bulged from its legs and arms, and the boy's statuesque countenance glistened with sweat — the shape of a man shrunk to the size of a child.

He was stunned by the boy's beauty. He truly was. There was something deeper, something about the way the boy's torso, arms and legs looked. Something about his stance, his demeanour. Something about his face, that perfect countenance of a living God. It was something indescribable by the human tongue.

If perfection existed, this was it, captured in the grainy footage of a cheap surveillance camera.

Ironwood un-paused the video, and the white blur of movement cleared a dozen meters of view in a heartbeat before the lights turned back on.

"The VPD's trackers are still searching the Forever Fall Forest. It's best that we inform them of this new discovery. Now that we've finally found what we're looking for, we can finally use the recognition software the programmers in the task force have created by inputting the creature's biometric data values into the program. I've already gotten permission from the Valean Council to collect all the recent footage from the surveillance cameras around the Western Sector of the Commercial District, and then finding the creature's last known location will be an easier objective to complete," said Ironwood.

His calm voice exuded confidence, but Winter could discern the faint undertones of uncertainty that had come and gone in so many of these fleeting moments. She felt sorry for the General, sympathy for the man who bore the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"The surveillance cameras in Vale. Are there plenty of them, General?" asked Winter.

"I'm not sure, but there should be a decent number of surveillance cameras interspersed throughout the Western Sector. It's too bad that facial recognition modules have not yet been implemented within the surveillance cameras in Vale," said Ironwood.

"I understand, General. Pardon my ignorance, but what does the council intend on doing about the creature…in the grand scheme of things, so to speak?" asked Winter, choosing her words with care.

There was a long pause. For hours, the councils of the four kingdoms had debated among each other of the implications of the incident and the possible consequences of every move they made. And yet, they had so little actual evidence. Evidence that could be easily interpreted easily. There were so many interpretations, so many feats of mental gymnastics, and yet, so little substance.

James gathered his thoughts.

"We don't have enough information. Atlas's finest minds have been stumped by the technology that's onboard that object. For now, we'll simply have to improvise," admitted the General.

Of course, that was not all that he believed. James knew that _she_ would be very interested in this creature as a tool of destruction. It was an important piece in the long game that she played. If what Alice and the other biologists had told him had been correct, the creature would be exceedingly dangerous for even the Atlas Operatives to neutralize.

Salem's eyes and ears were interspersed throughout the Kingdoms. Sooner or later, she would know of the incredible capabilities of the creature. And when she does, James was confident that she would do everything in her power to gain its allegiance to herself and herself only. James trusted Ozpin's plans. They needed to secure the creature's allegiance before she did. Its destruction was the only alternative.

It was truly a race against time, and the fate of the Kingdoms hung in the balance.

Winter had expected the reply. Many of the researchers she supervised had, sometimes reluctantly, confessed that their low productivity was caused directly by their highly limited understanding of the alien technology. And, despite their myriad protestations, their shifting of the blame to the limitations of the Atlesian technology, they each knew deep down that primal emotion that froze their blood and chilled their spines the instant they made an attempt at a cognitive appreciation.

It was fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what was incomprehensible. The existence of such a variant of Fear was predicated upon the morphology of their neurological circuitry. For it was that which determined their comprehension of the cosmos, however limited, that decided when to fear and when not to.

The apex of a civilization's intelligence, brought to their knees by the apex of another's. Admittedly, it was rather disheartening for Winter to watch.

"Our researchers have provided us with a rather limited amount of information. We don't have the required information, and the researchers seem to have encountered severe difficulties understanding the nature of the unidentified object and the organism it once contained," said Ironwood. "However, there have been a few successes, especially on the topic of the organism's physiology. Thanks to our supercomputers, we were able to sequence the genome of the organism in a short period of time, and thanks to the simulations they were capable of computing, a few of our researchers were able to gain a basic understanding of the organism's anatomy."

"Indeed, General. The researcher that Augustus was supervising yesterday, Dr Alice Lockwood, with the help of her assistants, have managed to gain a basic understanding of the creatures anatomy," said Winter.

Ironwood gathered his thoughts.

"Basic seems to be an overstatement. She has only described a few potential organs, and the peer review council has described her detailing of said organs as 'shallow' and 'highly generalized'," he said. James let out a breath of hot air and swallowed. "However, the peer reviewers seem very impressed with the discoveries she has made, given the magnitude of the situation. Therefore, I have no qualms about keeping her on the team."

"I understand, General."

"I have been notified by the peer reviewers of the progress the researchers have made. They believe that Alice Lockwood and Hammond Schwarz's team have contributed the most. What do you think about this assessment?"

It was a vague, open ended question.

"I can only make an assessment on Alice's productivity based on her presentation from the meetings. Although I do not understand much of what she says, the sheer amount of information she provides is a testament to her immense productivity and usefulness to this enterprise," stated Winter.

"Hmm," there came a low, guttural grunt of approval from the other side. Winter could tell that the General was exhausted. "What about Hammond?"

"They are certainly extremely useful, but they have encountered a slight problem with the object's outer casing," said Alice. "However, that is due to the limitations of the technology they had at their disposal."

"Indeed. From what I can recall, the outer casing of the unidentified object was made from an extremely durable element, not an alloy," said Ironwood. He recalled the basic terminology that Hammond had elucidated the day before. "The element they discovered displays extraordinary tensile strength and hardness. It also has an extremely high melting point. Of course, such a thing is not outside the realm of possibility."

"Of course, General. And what do you think of the other researchers?" asked Winter.

"Well, they are obviously the best researchers in the nation. Most of them have been awarded the Golden Scepter for contributions done in their particular fields. The finest minds in Atlas," said Ironwood. He sighed sadly. "Though that is by no means a guarantee that they are able to easily comprehend the alien technology. The fact that some of our researchers are able to understand it at all is quite impressive, considering the apparent complexity of the technology. But most, if not all of the information they understand is virtually useless at this point."

"Would it be best to publicly reveal the image, considering the…physical differences between the creature and regular humans?"

There was a long pause on the other end.

"There is an old proverb, Winter," said James. "When on the hunt for a snake, causing a disturbance in the grass will likely cause the snake to be alerted to your presence, and thus the snake will flee. What is the moral of this story, Winter?"

It was an easy one.

"That one must not act rashly and alert the enemy, General. But the strategy I proposed may be logically sound. Given Vale's large population, the creature will not be able to hide for long."

"And what do you propose we do in conjunction with publicly revealing the creature's identity?" asked Ironwood.

"We could…request an audience with the creature. Find out why it's here, in exchange for useful information. Quid pro Quo, so to speak."

"Perhaps. But we know next to nothing about him, his origins, and the purpose behind his coming to Remnant," said Ironwood. "Alice has re-checked the data and run a few more simulations. As you may recall, she informed the council yesterday that the creature is possibly several times stronger than the average huntsman. That makes it a significant security risk to the people of Atlas and Vale. We need to gather more information at the moment before making any big decisions. We don't know its motives, its exact strength, its abilities, its intelligence, as well as several other variables. Therefore, we shouldn't make any decisions that would endanger the lives of the people and key personnel."

"Affirmative, General," said Winter.

"But to be certain, we will first have to answer two questions: Why — and how — did the lights go out? Why didn't the surveillance cameras stop working?" said James. "I believe the solution to many of my — and the council's questions lies in the answers of those two."

* * *

**The boy who would be king**

**520 hours, 5th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Valean Time**

**Western Sector, Commercial District, Vale**

The boy awoke early in the morning, long before the break of dawn.

He had awoken with a start. Dirt trails of the tears whose origin he could not discern streaked down the length of his face, and his hearts were hammering against his chest.

And then the memories of that _dream_ rushed back to him. That perfect voice. Those creatures, that species struck from the light of its former glory.

The boy rose from the cold concrete. He patted the dust off his sweat-soaked clothes. The boy hears the voices in the distance. The city was stirring, stirring in its bed.

He felt it again. The hunger returns, more spiteful than ever.

The boy clutches his abdomen in newfound anguish. His ribcage stretches his pale skin as he breathes the humid air, and the boy sets off, intuition guiding his mind as he navigates the concrete labyrinth.

After a couple of turns, the boy emerges from the darkness of the alley, into the tar clad street where the light of the lamppost reigns. This street was different from the one he had called home the night before.

There was a dead end to the right, at which the river of tar culminated in a large shophouse.

And then he saw it. There was a massive crater in the middle of the road, as though a bomb had been set off. There were chunks of debris strewn around the battlefield, and the boy could see the raw earth through the ugly wound.

 _From Dust till Dawn_ was the name of the shop name, it seemed, from the rustic coppery font engraved as a heading.

Through the shattered sea-blue windows, the boy could see plastic packets and half-depleted glass tubes containing the all-important source of energy known as Dust. Armed robbery? That seemed the most probable answer to this conundrum. Police tap had been set up around the scene, cordoning off the areas of interest to the boy.

The boy gnashed his teeth in anger at the injustice. How he wished that he'd been there to stop the crime. But there were more pressing issues at the moment. He needed food, and he needed food now.

The harsh iron railings bit into the boy's supple palms, and the cold wind stirred his ragged hair. The ladder's mechanism was deciphered with but a glance and the boy inched up the rusted thing with backbreaking speed. He heaved himself over the ledge, gripping the flat concrete rooftop with the force of a hydraulic press.

The slumbering city that lay before him was a beautiful sight to behold. An amalgamation of traits that distinguished man from beast, and man from man. The dark outlines of spires rose above the low-dwelling gable roofs, and the boy recognized the basic schematic of the street where the library was located. It was a few hundred meters away, and the boy finished computing the optimum path to reach there a nanosecond later.

The boy also recognized the street where the weapon store from yesterday could be found. As his eyes traced the faint outline of the street to the store's approximate location, he was surprised to see that it was open.

Hopping down from the building, his sandaled feet absorbing the brunt of the impact, the boy returned to navigating the streets once again. There didn't appear to be any restaurants in the distance, or rather, any that he could see. But then again, how would he be able to pay for the food?

The boy clenched his teeth in frustration and agony as his stomach knotted on itself and groaned with need. The lack of water, however, was not an issue. Interspersed throughout the city were public water coolers. The boy was cautious at first, of the purity of the fluid it offered, but after a round of sampling, he was filled with a newfound conviction of unknown source that the water was safe. There were trace elements other than liquid water in the fluid, but they were not harmful — at least in their current levels.

Suddenly, the boy's sharp eyes seized the image of something shiny in the distance. A vending machine. It was filled with food — junk food of lacklustre nutritional value. It was better than nothing; it could at least sate his hunger. The boy crossed the road. It was deathly silent here — not a soul had been seen since he awoke, and only the illumination of the streetlight and the shattered moon bore down on the city.

The boy was against stealing, but that conviction had no reign over extenuating circumstances such as this. There was a rush of hot saliva. It dripped onto the dusty brick pavement and sizzled.

The moonlight glinted from a thousand and seventy-five shards of glass. The psychic blast of pressurized air was stronger than expected. Many if not all of the potato chips in the machine were reduced into crumbs, and their packages had been shredded, burst at the seams. That didn't matter to the boy; he retrieved a single large packet of chips and poured its contents into his mouth. And another one. And then another one.

As quickly as he had arrived, the boy departed. But for a fraction of a second, he felt something soft and mushy underneath his sandals. Losing his balance, the boy fell onto the rough grey concrete floor, and he felt a sharp pain that emanated from his palms as he tried to support himself.

He had fallen over.

It was a banana peel. He had slipped on a banana peel. What were the odds?

The boy cursed his misfortune, but he found it funny not to laugh. The scrapes on his palm had already begun to heal. New flesh emerged from the superficial injury as a process that took a day or two was shortened to a span of seconds. The boy grunted in annoyance and rose from the ground.

Just as he did so, something perched atop the branches of a lamp post caught his eye.

It was a crow. A large one at that. Unlike others, its eyes were a sharp cherry red.

And it was staring at him.

The bird was silent, and the boy was slightly perturbed by its behaviour. More disturbing still were its eyes. The cherry-red orbs were glazed over, the eyes of a corpse atop its funeral pyre.

And then he noticed it.

It had no heartbeat.

The conclusion was frightening.

The 'crow' appeared to have been aware of the fact that it was at the centre of the boy's focus; with a flap of its shiny black wings, it began to fly away towards the roof of a nearby apartment complex. Its movements were so natural, so inconspicuously true to the natural chaos of muscle motion, but the boy saw through the façade at first sight, or rather, at the first hearing.

_Automaton!_

The boy's placid form exploded into quicksilver action. Faster than lightning, he grabbed a large fragment of the chipped concrete pavement. Adrenaline spiked his blood. His fingers wrapped loosely around its chalky surface. It was hard. He was sure of that.

Time seeped like resin. The boy made a series of intuitive calculations as a computer would decide the angle of an artillery cannon.

The stone moved faster than thought, a deadly brick-red blur of matter. There was a puff of black feathers and a glint of grey metal. Something large and sharp flashed through the air and smashed the rock into hundreds of fine pebbles.

The boy reared his head in surprise.

He saw the weapon. It was a massive, tapered sword, longer than the average man was tall. The boy saw it leave its owner's hand—

—There was a tremendous bang as it pierced the air, covering a dozen meters in an instant, a silver lance in the darkness before daybreak.

But the boy was already moving.

He sidestepped the sword with a speed unmatched by most huntsmen, and it was embedded several inches into the road, several meters away. One thing was certain — it would have been a murderous wound.

It was a man. The crow had transformed into a man who now stood atop the sword's hilt. His incredulity was dressed in the skin of a stoic.

He was draped in a familiar smell. It might have been imperceptible to the ordinary man, but the boy was a breed apart.

Of all the myriad possibilities, the boy did not expect this.

A shapeshifter.

The man rushed him at impossible speeds. The boy dodged his blade again, but just barely.

"Did the girl Ruby tell you of this? Of me?" asked the boy.

The man's eyes widened in shock.

"How did you know?" asked the man.

"I can smell her scent on your clothes," said the boy. His voice was all sibilance and subtlety in an accent the huntsman did not recognize. The man furrowed his brows in disgust at what he said.

"Why are you here? Why are you here on Remnant? What are you?" cried Qrow.

Without warning, the huntsman sprang forward, covering a dozen meters in the blink of an eye. His blade swept out murderously at the boy's midriff with enough force to bisect him, but the boy's body lurched backwards, narrowly avoiding his untimely death.

Lightning quick, the boy wrenched a rod of iron that supported a nearby railing from its foundations. It was a crude, deadly thing. Moving with terrifying speed, the boy struck out at him, and the killing point of the crude stiletto stopped just shy of Qrow's throat.

The huntsman's eyes widened in fear. The boy's arms had moved lithely and with a fluidity beyond the capabilities of a huntsman. The boy frowned in frustration. The expression was genuine. His grip did not falter, however.

"I don't know. The earliest memory I have is of waking up inside the pod. You have to trust me."

There was a long pause. Qrow searched desperately for an opening. There was none.

"How do I know if you're telling the truth?"

"The fact that I am unable to prove my honesty is predicated upon the circumstances of my arrival," said the boy. "In other words, there is no reason for you to trust me, and there is no way that I can convince you otherwise. For all you know, I could be lying to you. About everything. The same could be said of you. But this is not how it ends. Not in bloodshed."

The boy studied the man's face. Sorrow and uncertainty lurked in his vermillion eyes. The boy listened to the rising thunder of his heart and beheld the widening of his dilated pupils. The boy could smell something, and with an impossible, instinctual clarity he knew what it was.

Fear. The man was afraid. Afraid of him.

The boy lowered the makeshift dagger on purpose.

"Then why did you throw the rock at me?" said Qrow. "You knew."

"It was never my intention to injure you. If it had been an ordinary bird, I would not have killed anyone, only a bird. If it was a reconnaissance device engineered by the Atlas Institute of Technology to track me down, then all the better. As far as I know, no shapeshifting semblances have been catalogued in the official record of semblances," the boy said. He paused. "How do I know if this conversation is not being recorded by some device? How do I know if you have not engineered this scenario? What master do you serve?"

The boy's eyes narrowed.

"Fine, I believe you for now. You can count on me that it isn't. Listen, I just want to talk-"

The boy cut him off. "And what is the weight of a stranger's words, especially to one such as I? Do I have to pry the microphone from your bleeding corpse?"

Qrow's heartbeat quickened at the sound of the boy's words. His grip on _Harbinger'_ s hilt tightened, but something about the boy told Qrow that it was a battle he could not win.

"No, I promise!" cried Qrow. "I believe you!"

He sheathed the massive weapon and gestured towards the boy. He emptied his pockets and rotated his body a full 360 degrees. There was nothing.

"Now do you believe me when I say that this conversation is not being recorded?"

"Precisely my point."

"Huh?"

"Be honest: who sent you to spy on me?" whispered the boy. His voice was softer now.

"Nobody! I came because I wanted to watch over my niece when she went out shopping for dust. She got into trouble at the dust shop as there was a robbery and then she managed to chase off the robbers," said Qrow.

"Is your niece Ruby?"

Qrow swallowed. "Yes."

A cold gust of wind sent a shiver down his spine.

"Were you watching over Ruby at the time of the robbery?" asked the boy.

"No, I wasn't," said Qrow.

There was a hot flash of anger, more piercing than a laser and more luminous than the death throes of a star in the boy's cold black eyes. It was so fleetingly faint, but Qrow spotted it, nevertheless.

"Is your niece at home?" asked the boy.

"Yes, she is."

"Then why are you still here?"

"I was at the bar," said the huntsman. The story was not very believable, and Qrow remembered how annoyed he was when Ruby stayed shopping, even at night, against his advice.

"Why did you come and spy on me?"

"I was curious about what she told me. I wondered if what she told me was true, that you were really the alien," said Qrow.

"Alien. Perhaps whether or not I am an alien will be the subject of a philosophical debate reserved for another day," mused the child.

"I saw you…sleeping on the floor," said Qrow.

"Why didn't you kill me then?"

"Kill you?" scoffed Qrow. "Why would I want to kill a child? You are…beautiful."

The boy was silent.

"When did you start following me?"

"When you woke up."

"How did you know that I woke up?"

The dialectic was draining every drop of legitimacy Qrow's story had.

"I…um, saw you wake up," said the huntsman.

"And when did you first see me?"

"Yesterday, at around eleven in the evening."

"And what is the time now?"

"Five forty-six in the morning."

"How did you know if I was going to wake up?"

"I didn't. I arrived at three in the morning and saw that you were still asleep."

The boy did not say anything. He simply nodded. There was a long pause.

"Walk."

"What?"

"Start walking in this direction," said the boy, gesturing ahead. "And then turn left at that bend."

"O-Okay! Sure!"

The two walked briskly down the street. A space of five meters lay between them.

Qrow could cover that distance in 20 milliseconds and slice his head off if he wanted to. The boy could not move with such speed, but there was no guarantee that he could not react to and dodge such an attack. Qrow was certain that the boy had not unlocked his aura, and as such he was especially vulnerable to sharp objects such as his sword. That was perhaps why he had hitherto attempted to dodge all of his attacks.

No, he thought. It was too big of a risk. The boy could move with speed comparable to that of a veteran huntsman's, but he could not sense an upper limit to the boy's reaction time. Was he on par with the maidens? Ozpin? Higher still?

Whatever the number was, it was definitely higher than his.

"So…um…where are we going?" asked Qrow.

The boy did not give a direct reply.

"What is your name?"

Qrow hesitated. Information was valuable, and there was no doubt that the boy would ask some more. It was all his fault, really, that the surveillance effort had been discovered. If he had only kept his distance, the boy would not have had the misfortune of slipping on the banana peel, and he would not have been discovered. The huntsman clenched his fists in anger. Perhaps more information could be gathered if he spoke to the creature personally.

"Name's Qrow."

The boy giggled. Undoubtedly, his laughter was genuine, but it was the strangest sound Qrow had ever heard. The reaction was primal — every hair on Qrow's arms stood up, and adrenaline spiked his blood. It was not the laughter of a child, it was just…wrong. There was a wrongness to his voice, plain and simple.

"Was that really your name?"

The laughter ended suddenly. Any hints of humor had disappeared.

"Yes! It's spelled K-R-O-W."

"I see. That's an odd name," mused the boy. "Though not unheard of, given the wide onomastic variety in these regions."

"It…is."

There was a long pause as they walked down the street, with the boy directing Qrow's every move from behind.

"So, where are we going?"

"Nowhere in particular," said the boy. "Ask me some questions."

"What?"

"Ask me some questions."

It was usually the other way around. Or so, that was what Qrow had imagined.

Atlas had a few protocols for the scenario he was caught up in, but he was not currently gathering information for Atlas. He could think of a few options, of course. He could escape if the creature ran slower than him. He could possibly kill the creature — the limit to its speed and strength had not yet been established, but it was able to casually dodge his attack. It appeared as though the researcher Alice Lockwood's report could be correct.

"So, um…what's…your name?" asked Qrow.

There was a pause.

"I thought Ruby told you that," said the boy.

"She did?" said Qrow, feigning surprise. "Oh, yeah. Number eight, right? Does that mean there's a number one? How about two?"

This was something the boy had considered in the past. He had never given it much thought, however, though the implication of the serial number was that others like him existed.

"I hope so."

There was another long pause after the words.

"So, what do you think the government would want to do with you?"

"Information."

He didn't know the exact answer to that either. Several variables were at play here. A few hypotheticals were the most logical. They wanted information — that was obvious. He could empathize with that.

What concerned him was the type of information they wanted. From what he had heard, his arrival upon the planet had, for all intents and purposes, been a surprise. Their opinions of his purpose were crucial in assessing the threat they posed.

In other words, if they viewed him as an enemy, they would surely treat him as such. Did they view him as a weapon? An insurgent? Surely, those responsible for sending him here must have known that the process of re-entry was anything but subtle. If they wanted to wipe out the planet's population, deploying a vector of disease would be a more effective solution.

A conundrum indeed.

There was a method to this madness. There had to be, out of logical necessity, a grand plan to his existence as a designed being, a purpose to his existence upon this planet. The boy reasoned that it would be the height of ignorance to stumble upon a watch in a desert and not question the reasons behind its contrivance and the evident manifestation of design. Yet it would not be so to stumble upon a rock and be assured that there was no purpose, however infinitesimal, to its existence. The same principle applied to him and the circumstances of his arrival.

And yet, as the boy probed the depths of his embryonic memories, there was no reason to be found. There was only one place where knowledge did not know _a priori_ could exist.

The pod. He had to get back to the pod. But to his knowledge, the place where it had been held was heavily guarded, deep within the city of Atlas. He'd have to get there quickly.

Qrow knew that there would be a surveillance camera aimed directly at this bend on the opposite side. He got ready to transform when they arrived. The boy was fast, but he was experienced in these types of situations. He was sure that the boy would pursue him — directly into the snare of the camera.

Ten seconds.

Nine seconds.

The pair walked at a steady pace on the brick pavement. The bend was near.

Eight seconds.

Six seconds.

Four seconds.

Two seconds.

The boy could see the anxiety soiling the man's clothes and the hair rising on the skin of his nape. The pulse of his heart quickened. Something was going on, but he did not know what.

One second.

Qrow turned first.

The boy saw the glint of metal from the camera, that fine metallic bezel.

Qrow dashed, running faster than he ever had in his life. He heard the boy curse in a tongue he could not understand.

There was a mighty bang. Qrow witnessed the destruction of the camera. It exploded the instant he began to run. He saw the shards of metal and glass and silicon circuitry falling in slow motion. He saw the flash of the electric arc pulsing through the ionized air.

He flew faster than he ever had in the arcane simulacrum, never turning back.

Something long and dark shot past him. He did not dare to look at it, though he had a good idea as to what it was.

When he had flown for a whole thirty seconds, Qrow turned back to look at the ground.

The boy was gone.

* * *

**Night, 5th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Main Building, Atlas Institute of Technology**

Alice loved the view from the top of the researcher dormitory. By virtue of the fact that the dormitories were situated at the top of the institute's building, it was also the view from the top of the building that she enjoyed.

The institute's domination of the education district skyline had no purpose other than necessity. By 80 AGW, the city of Atlas was saturated with skyscrapers, and there was nowhere left to build but into the heavens. All of the departments had to be fused into a single, massive building. The facility boasted state-of-the-art safety mechanisms designed to isolate and neutralize any biological and chemical hazards. Of course, the facilities containing the most dangerous of these agents were built and maintained off-site.

Alice's hands were cold. The iron railing they gripped was freezing. The view up here, of the myriad colours and raucous advertisements that were a faint whisper to her, was truly spectacular. She could see for miles and miles across the horizon, but it was the view of the night sky that mattered the most to her.

Her coat flapped in the wind. Alice did not mind the cold that diffused through her pyjamas and crept up her thin legs. She stared off, upwards, into the stars.

There was a certain quality to this view. Alice could not describe it lucidly — the matter was an emotional one. A disconnect between herself and the world below. Something about the view — those tiny skyscrapers that stood below in perfect harmony, those cheery lights that tinted the air blue, and the distant stars sprinkled across the void above — made her feel sad. And yet, she enjoyed this sadness. This bittersweet melancholy.

There was a sound behind her. Alice turned and saw who it was.

"Oh, it's you…You always seem to know where to find me…"

"All huntsmen have been trained in the art of tracking. But then again, we huntsmen aren't at the liberty to know the emotional states of the creatures we hunt," said Augustus. His voice was somber, as though he was deep in thought.

Alice gave him a rueful grin.

"How are you here?" she asked.

"I've finished my daily report. There is fresh information — one of Ironwood's spies had a brief encounter with the creature," said Augustus, approaching the biologist. He leaned against the railing and his gaze panned out across the city.

"What happened?" asked Alice. This certainly piqued her interest.

"He got into a fight with the creature."

"Not much of a spy then, is he?"

"Top of the line huntsman. Professor at an undisclosed academy. Excellent at gathering information. He has a peculiar semblance that grants him stealth capabilities, or so I've heard," said Augustus.

"Then how did he get caught?" teased Alice.

"I wouldn't know exactly, not until Ironwood tells me what that semblance is. But the point is, he got too close, and somehow the creature noticed him."

"How did he get noticed?" asked Alice.

"Don't know," said Augustus. "It just did."

"And then what happened?"

"The huntsman defended himself and counterattacked," explained Augustus. "The creature fought back and almost killed him. Don't know why he did so. First thing he should have done was escape. But then again, he wasn't on official duty at the time, so Atlas had no jurisdiction over him."

"How fast is it?"

"Well, nobody died. The huntsman told Ironwood, who told me and the specialist Schnee that the creature was extremely fast. Freakishly fast reactions and combat speed, but nothing outlandish in terms of movement speed. It easily sidestepped an attack from the huntsman that broke the sound barrier. After dodging another of the huntsman's attacks, the creature counterattacked before the huntsman could even react."

"What did it use?"

"A makeshift dagger. Iron. Enough to cause some serious injuries," said Augustus.

"Other abilities?" asked Alice.

"Hmm, now that I think of it, there was something special. I was told that the huntsman noticed the camera going off. It exploded."

"Interesting. I would ask the council to elucidate the causal relationship between the creature and the explosion, but I presume they have not a clue?" asked Alice. Augustus nodded his head. "How did the huntsman escape? I'll be sure to ask Ironwood plenty of questions later. "

"They talked for a while. The huntsman had to fabricate a story as to why he was spying on it. He said the creature was extremely intelligent and spoke with the vocabulary of an adult even though it appeared to be a seven-year-old child. The huntsman also gave the creature a fake name, but he doesn't believe that the creature bought it. The huntsman said that it probably didn't catch on due to the homonymous nature of the name," said Augustus. "What an idiot. Should've escaped the first chance he got. He escaped in the end."

"I see. Homonymous as in…"

"Yes," confirmed Augustus.

"Ah, I see," said Alice. She stared at Augustus' shirt for a while. Alice clenched her jaw, and her face turned red.

A few seconds later, they burst out laughing.

"What did you expect was going to happen? That I would come up with the huntsman's name? It's impossible for me to brute-force the calculation with my pre-existing neuroarchitecture anyways. Nor am I able to make an educated guess of the identity of this huntsman."

"Even an eidetic memory has its limits. Unless you're trying extremely hard to pretend you are human," said Augustus.

"I've successfully fooled you for more than a decade," giggled Alice. "And so has the rest of the populace been fooled by the authorities. The world will soon know that the Super Scientist Alice Lockwood is actually an Artificial Superintelligence."

"Not unless you wish to play a game of semantics," said Augustus. "Then whatever abomination the AIT cooks up in their labs can be called human."

Alice chuckled. "Do you happen to know the name of this huntsman?"

"No. It's beyond 'top-secret' information," said Augustus, finger quoting 'top-secret'. Alice giggled at the implications of his gesture.

"Hmm. I've always suspected the existence of such a clearance level," said the biologist. "By definition, the most stringent clearance level is 'top-secret'. I suppose the Atlesian bureaucracy's ineptitude in logico-philosophical matters really shines in this one."

The Specialist laughed, and Alice's gaze panned out over the twinkling city below.

A heavy sigh escaped her chapped lips. "It's beautiful. An amalgamation of human effort. Order and peace, a social construct. Evidence of sociability in the human species."

"An elegant façade draped over the basal instincts of humanity. It is the latest iteration of an unending cycle of emotional cladistics. We are, after all, extremely good at adapting," said Augustus. "As long as the means justify the ends."

There was a long pause as Alice looked to the stars. She could see them clearly, in spite of the extensive light pollution nearby.

She laid a hand on her friend's wrist. Augustus recoiled at the touch.

It was as cold as ice.

"Your cynicism was much uncalled for," she murmured. "Cladistics. The classification of organisms in clades, whereby a clade is a group based on the most recent common ancestor. You used it figuratively, I see. I don't remember teaching you the meaning of that word."

"I learned it on my own," said Augustus.

"Hmm. The rhetorician in you is showing," grumbled Alice. "Using terms you don't fully comprehend the meaning of. The way you used it reminded me of the obscurantist abuse of scientific terminology by philosophers long dead. Don't ever do that again."

Augustus sighed. "There is no such thing as a perfect analogue, Alice. Emotional cladistics. Emotional phylogeny. Emotional evolution. The nuances are so minute that nobody gives a damn. The reason we use analogies to convey ideas is that we tend to rely on our intuition to interpret phenomena such as that which I just described."

"My point stands," said Alice. There was a moment of unspoken tension between the two. They shivered as a frigid gust of wind blasted them full in their contrasting frames.

"You ever wonder what it's like on the moon?"

"I think we've had this conversation before," came the reply from Augustus.

"Have we? Hmm, I think we did…a year after we met. We never got to finish the conversation, I think," said Alice, sighing. "I've always wanted to go to the moon. I wish I could go there someday and live there. Away from all…this."

Alice's tone darkened on the last word. She looked down at the cityscape, and Augustus followed her gaze. She drew closer to her friend. He was taller than her by a little, and his body was warm, unlike her's.

"Will you come with me to the moon, friend?" she asked, drawing closer to him.

"Now there's this…incident. I'm scared of the implications, Alice. I really am," said Augustus. "The stars may not be as friendly as we thought they were."

"I know that's how you feel. Because it is exactly how I feel at this instant. The insignificance. The indifference on a cosmic scale," said Alice, her voice trembling with emotion. A lone tear slid down the side of her cheek. Augustus turned and saw that her eyes were teary and red.

"Will you come with me to the moon?"

Augustus smiled. He pulled her closer and ruffled her lank hair, and they looked up to the stars in unison.

"Of course I will. I'll be with you forever and wherever you are."


	6. Chapter 6

**Psyker**

**Teleologicae**

**Vigilante**

* * *

**0554 hours, 6th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Headmaster's Office, Atlas Academy**

James Ironwood was having a bad morning.

Contrary to popular belief, having the prestigious position of both the General of the Atlas Army and the Headmaster of Atlas Academy did not allow him to live a luxurious life.

Especially not in times like these. Several things tugged at his attention. He remembered being angry at Qrow for his recklessness on the morning of the day before. He remembered the spike of emotion that boiled his blood and reddened his face with rage. Anyhow, Qrow couldn't have been blamed for defending himself, but Ironwood remained angry at him for the fact that he did not escape immediately after destroying the stone.

But it was also good that Qrow had fought with the creature. The council now had an approximation of the creature's strength and speed. Qrow's assessment of the creature's attributes had been very useful, as they would at least have something to prepare for. For starters, it could travel at the speed of a top-tier huntsman and attack at speeds beyond their perception.

Considering the effects of altitude and atmospheric conditions, standard dust rounds, when fired at a person ten meters away, would usually reach him or her in no more than twenty milliseconds. Any half-decent huntsman, let alone Qrow, would be able to react to and dodge a bullet under such conditions. The fact that he could not react to the boy's lunge spoke plenty of the latter's speed.

Of its strength, Ironwood knew that it was strong enough to tear a long bar of iron from a side railing on the road. Considering the outright superior feats of strength that even the weakest of his students could perform several times over, Ironwood was rather unimpressed by the action.

Nevertheless, he was convinced that the creature likely was much stronger than huntsmen. Or rather, would be stronger. After all, there was no reason to suggest that it was fully-grown.

Furthermore, Qrow had reported that the creature's aura was possibly locked. Therefore, it probably wasn't using its aura during the battle. As per Ironwood's understanding of the subject, the creature had only been using its pure physical strength to move at the aforementioned speeds and tear out the iron railing.

In other words, Ironwood's — and the task force's hypothesis — was that it had been relying on pure muscle to move at incredible speeds. The thought frightened him, and so did the reality it corresponded to.

Through this line of reasoning, and with the additional benefit of Alice's research, Ironwood concluded that the creature was almost certainly a few times stronger than huntsmen and huntresses alike. It would've been great if Alice could predict the trajectory of its growth, but she couldn't, and neither could the other researchers he asked. Ironwood was extremely curious as to how strong and fast the creature was in, say, a year or two.

In the present, James Ironwood sat alone in his office. It was deathly silent in here. Winter and Augustus were busy supervising the teams of researchers — if they needed any supervision, that is. Progress on the object had been shaky and slow, but a few grand discoveries had been made. For example, the outer shell of the object had been melted down into sample-sized units and using a state-of-the-art qualitative spectroscopic technique, the material scientists were able to ascertain the elemental composition of the outer shell.

The alloy had been ingeniously designed.

There was no doubt whatsoever about that. Most of the material scientists had admitted that even they could not have come up with such a design for an ablative heat shield. In other words, the implication was that this element was, for all intents and purposes, suitable for the circumstances of the object's arrival on Remnant. This, therefore, implied that it was almost certain that the creature had been sent here on purpose.

So far, only a few pieces of the outer shell had been removed. It had been constructed using a ceramic-type material. What was more disconcerting was the fact that many of the researchers had pointed out that it was practically impossible to manufacture even, even with the latest technology.

James watched the footage of the breach over and over again. The grace and speed of the creature had never ceased to amaze him. It moved so very smoothly; its beautiful legs, arms, feet, torso, all working in perfect conjunction, even in this grainy footage. Ironwood had never seen such beautiful coordination in the past, even amongst the myriad students enrolled in his academy.

It was truly odd. Assuming that its creators had intended it to engage in an act of subterfuge and that they had full or virtually full control over its physical appearance, making it stick out like a sore thumb was a thoroughly illogical decision. Ironwood had been thinking. If its goal wasn't to blend into the population, then what was it? On the other hand, if the creature's purpose was the conquest of the planet, then it appeared that its creators hadn't given the populace's reaction much thought.

After all, would the people of Vale, Atlas, Vacuo, and Mistral really accept a being so far above themselves in strength, speed, and intelligence as their ruler? They would never accept a wolf in sheep's clothing. They would never accept an alien.

They would never accept a monster.

But the opposite could also be true. James knew the various religions practised in the Kingdoms and Menagerie, of the myriad prophets, prognosticators, seers, and prophecies that will never come to pass. But these organizations — cults, as James affectionately termed, were led by…men. The boy was not a god. Was the boy godlike then? Perhaps. They wouldn't see it as a monster. They wouldn't see it as a man. James knew the truth — that the world was created by two brother gods.

The truth didn't matter to the ordinary folk. They would see the creature like an angel, a demon, or whatever mythological beings they believed in. Many would attempt to kill him. Many others will attempt to worship him. There would be civil unrest all over Remnant between the practitioners of the myriad religions. And James knew what that would result in.

James pondered the limits of the creature's strength and speed. The numbers stood at three and four huntsmen respectively, as of now, due to the fact that it seemed almost evenly matched with Qrow, according to the latter's account. There was no reason to assume that it was already full grown. Would it grow to the size of an adult human? Or perhaps, larger still? Would its strength be the equivalent of five, ten, or even fifty huntsmen? The notion terrified James to the core.

He was reminded of something that Qrow said about the creature. James remembered the fact that Qrow had performed the advanced technique of 'reading' one's aura shortly after the duel began. Yes, it had a soul, but there was a different quality to the creature's aura that frightened him. For starters, he couldn't tell whether it was unlocked or locked. It was just…there. In place of an aura, he felt an indescribably voluminous mass of what appeared to be pure, raw energy. It blinded his senses as he gazed upon it, and Qrow recalled the terror that chilled his blood as he felt the creature's immense aura.

If anything, this implied that the creature's soul was far more powerful than that of the average human's. If anything, this was an alternative explanation as to how the creature was so powerful. Perhaps its 'aura' worked according to a similar principle as the auras of humans and the Faunus, allowing the creature to strengthen its body and perform superhuman feats of speed, strength, and stamina, rather than relying on its clearly superior physiology. Or perhaps the two principles worked in conjunction. The two explanations weren't mutually exclusive, after all. The creature could be empowered by its superhuman physiology and its immensely powerful 'aura'.

But Qrow had been explicit in stating that he did not sense any aura being used. More specifically, he did not sense a decrease in the reserves of the mysterious energy he found in the creature. In other words, it could not have possibly been used. But what if that was not the case? What if the creature could use this mystical energy without depleting it? That would be a complete gamechanger - unlimited access to superhuman strength.

He would have to consult Alice and the other biologists in matters pertaining to the material universe. He'd have to press them again on providing predictions of the trajectory of the creature's growth in strength, speed, and stamina. Higher-quality samples of the creature's cells had already been transported to Atlas, and the researchers had already begun work on creating more precise simulations.

In the present, there was a buzzing noise at the blast door that guarded his office. Someone had clicked on the doorbell. It was Winter Schnee.

Ironwood approved her entry with the press of a button. The massive doors parted, and the operative stepped within the third safest place in Atlas Academy.

"Good Morning, General," she greeted, saluting immediately at the door. The Specialist looked tired, as though she had been working all night. Ironwood noticed the relatively slight imperfections in her graceful movements and the sweat stains that sullied her statuesque countenance.

"Morning, Winter," said Ironwood. His gaze flickered to her for a split second before being averted to the video that played for the fifty-sixth time on his scroll. "Any word from the ones responsible for managing the biometric data recognition program?"

"The chief of the Valean Police Department has forwarded me the surveillance footage of the entire Western Sector of the Commercial District beginning on the 2nd of Joo'Lie and ending on 11:59 P.M last night. Processing the information took under a minute, thanks to our technology, and we found dozens of matches in near the site of intrusion. Do you wish for me to forward to you the compiled footage?" asked Winter.

There was a long pause as James gathered his thoughts. What a stupid question that was. Of course he wanted the footage.

"Plot out every single location where the sightings occurred on a map of the Western Sector of the Commercial District. Do that for me, Winter," said Ironwood. "Also, send me the footage, compiled according to chronological order."

"I have already plotted out the locations of the sightings and compiled the footage according to chronological order, General," replied the Specialist.

Ironwood smiled, pleased at what she had done. Winter was delighted to see the expression crease his face.

"Good, Specialist Schnee," said James.

"Thank you, General. There is another thing," said Winter.

"Speak."

"The VPD reported that several cameras had been destroyed by some force. Coincidentally, recovered from the cameras were footage depicting the creature. A pattern was established — the footage of the creature would be immediately cut short if it noticed the camera," said Winter.

"How did it notice the cameras?"

"It saw the cameras," explained Winter. "The footage would be cut by the next frame or the frame after that."

"I'm not going to ask how it even destroyed the cameras at a distance. There's no way we can answer that question unless we're willing to acknowledge the possibility that it has a telekinesis-based semblance, which is the best hypothesis. How many frames per second do the cameras run on?" asked Ironwood.

"Sixty. The cameras here in Atlas run on four times that," added Winter, and her chest puffed out in pride.

 _Good grief,_ thought Ironwood. _Just when I thought she was different from the_ _other Specialists._

"Sixty frames per second…that makes its reaction time no slower than sixteen-point-seven milliseconds, if the camera was destroyed by the next frame," mused Ironwood, performing a quick mental calculation.

"It is to be expected, General," said Winter. "But to match an elite amongst huntsman, albeit a drunk one, the creature's reaction time is expected to be far lower than that."

He thought for a moment. Qrow had reported witnessing the destruction of a camera during his encounter with the creature. There was no doubt about it now — the boy had learnt of the purpose of surveillance cameras and was somehow responsible for destroying the cameras.

"If we arrange the footage according to chronological order, we can pinpoint the first instance whereupon the camera was destroyed by the creature. With the information I gathered from Qrow, I can then cross-reference the date and time of the first time it destroyed a camera and the time and date it accessed the library. I believe we can learn much from what the result will imply," explained James calmly. He noticed the look of confusion on Winter's face. "Let me explain: The first surveillance camera that the creature encountered, that is, the one at the wall, was not immediately destroyed. The first instance of a camera being destroyed occurred a great distance from the wall, meaning that it must have passed several cameras along the way. Do you see where I'm going with this, Winter?"

The Specialist nodded her head. "Ah, I see, General. So it must have learned, somewhere along the way, the function of a surveillance camera."

"Precisely. Also, the fact that it began to destroy the cameras proves many things. One, that it does not want us to know what it's doing, which means that it knows that whatever is doing will elicit a response that may be detrimental to its goals. And why would we respond in such a manner? Because whatever it's doing is either harmful to us or it conflicts with our goals," said Ironwood.

"But, General, there are other possibilities," said Winter.

"True, but this is probably what's going through its mind," said Ironwood.

"So with these facts, it is proven that the creature was ignorant of Vale's surveillance technology and that it is likely engaging in activities which are not in the interests of humanity," summarized Winter. "We also know that the creature likely gained learned of the surveillance technology from a library. However...as per the anecdote from Qrow's niece, it does seem that the creature knows the language."

"That it does," admitted Ironwood. "Perhaps it somehow learned the language before it arrived on Remnant."

"Indeed, General," said Winter. "That appears to be the most logical explanation. But even so, we have to assume that it had access to learning materials…wherever it was, and that would subsequently imply that its creators had access to the language. I don't know how this conundrum may be resolved, General. Furthermore, if its creators had the ability to teach it the language, why couldn't it have educated it about the surveillance technology here?"

"Yes, Winter. If it knew the language, what prevented it from knowing the history, culture, and contextual information of Remnant prior to its arrival?" said James. "So many valid questions that I cannot answer. But we do not need to answer them. We only need to gather enough information to build a reliable model of the creature's physical and mental characteristics — its anatomy, its motives, desires, wants, needs, goals — so that we may predict its actions. Still, I am rather curious as to what it may have learned at the library. After all, that is how we can ascertain whatever knowledge it did not possess prior to arriving on Remnant."

"Affirmative, General," said Winter. "How are you going to do that?"

"I'll make a request for the VPD to interview the librarians on duty at the time. Finding them will be easy — as far as I'm aware of, there is only a single library in the Western Sector. Please relay my message to the VPD later, Winter," said James.

"Of course, General."

James smiled. Winter was relieved to see the look on her General's face — he looked energetic and full of health. A restful night. But the strain on his brows, however, slight, remained visible. He was always so very deep in thought. A dozen things tugged at his attention, and though the General was one of the greatest who had ever lived, he was still a man.

"One last thing. Would you make me a cup of coffee, Winter?"

"With pleasure."

* * *

**0803 hours, 6th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Interview Room 3A, VPD Headquarters, Western Sector, Commercial District, Vale**

"As I've already said, I. Want. My. Lawyer."

"Let me reiterate — you are not under suspicion of breaking the law. We only need to ask you some questions pertaining to your experience as an eyewitness of the entity," said the detective.

Solomon Wong's muscular arms stood like twin tree trunks upon the steel table, firm and unyielding. He was a man of six foot two and towered over Rosa, who remained seated with her wrists cuffed to her chair. She shivered briefly in the cold, dull concrete room, dressed in nothing but casual clothes.

"I'm not a fool, detective. The entity?" mocked the librarian, indignance rising in her voice. She was feisty. "Is that what you call him? And if I'm not under suspicion of breaking the law, why am I cuffed?"

"Ma'am, you have proved to be extremely uncooperative ever since we brought you to this station," said the detective firmly. "Besides, it's protocol."

His teeth gnashed with impatience as he spoke the words for the third time. Right from the start, when the incompetent officers had dragged the librarian into the stations in cuffs from the warmth of her home, he knew that the conversation would turn out to be the unbreakable litany of ignorance and superstition that it was in the present.

"He's not our enemy," said the librarian for the fifth time. "He's our saviour."

Detective Wong groaned in frustration.

"And how would you know that?"

"I just do," mumbled Rosa. "You wouldn't understand. You didn't see what I saw in him..."

The librarian trailed off, and her gaze glazed over with distraction. The detective took a deep breath.

"We need you to co-operate, Miss Rosa. Which books did he read? That is all I need to know."

"What if I can't remember their titles?" teased Rosa.

"You don't have the give the exact title. Just the topic would be fine," sighed detective Wong.

Rosa sighed sadly. Nothing she had said over the past twenty minutes could persuade the detective to give up. Not that she expected such a thing to happen. She was the only one who saw the boy — he had sequestered himself in a far, untrodden corner of the library.

She knew — of course, she knew — at first glance that the boy was not human. There had been no doubt about it. Aside from his finely sculpted physique and his stark beauty, she saw the hidden warmth in his gaze, an air of justice and passion in that instant whereupon she gazed into those black, mirthless eyes.

He was a gift from God. The light against the Grimm. He would be their saviour.

In the present, Rosa gazed blankly at the detective's grey, nondescript shirt.

"Fine. He was reading a book on…the history of the kingdoms, I think. There was also a dictionary, a textbook on biology, Eliezer's _Teleologicae_ , and some other books," said Rosa.

"Te…leolo…gicae?" queried the detective, quickly jotting down everything she had just said in his notebook. The interview was recorded, but it wouldn't hurt to have the information in his pocket at all times.

"T.E.L.E.O.L.O.G.I.C.A.E. It was a book on teleology by Eliezer Teal," stated the librarian impatiently.

"It's a philosophical concept. The explanations of things as functions of their purpose as opposed to the causes by which they arise," elucidated Rosa, not expecting the inspector to follow.

"Interesting," said the inspector.

"Hmm…I think that will do. You're free to go," said detective Wong, unlocking the woman's cuffs. She got up to leave, and Solomon turned to her as she did. "You know, Ma'am, this could have gone much faster if you had cooperated from the start."

Rosa gave a snort of derision as she opened the door and left. Solomon despised the feisty hag. He let out a sigh as she walked out of the interview room, her footsteps chiming in the distance.

There would be much work to do. Solomon Wong groaned in frustration as he rubbed his tired eyes and downed the cup of cold coffee on the steel table.

For one, he hated Atlas' involvement in the investigation. The Specialist who represented the Atlesian Council in their interactions with the VPD was Winter Schnee, daughter of the multi-billionaire Jacques Schnee, CEO of the Schnee Dust Company. There was a long list of people Solomon hated, and she was definitely at the top of the list.

She was the typical Atlas Elite — dressed immaculately and loyal to a fault to her general. To make matters worse, her speech and her use of a flowery vernacular — as is typical of nearly all Atlas Elites — was downright condescending. She never seemed content with the progress he made, always staring daggers at him through the holographic display.

He felt that he deserved much more than her looks of derision.

Secondly, the situation outside wasn't exactly the best. News of the presence of Atlesian airships at Beacon Academy had spread like wildfire, and rumours of the creature's existence in the Western Sector had spread like wildfire through means unknown. Few dared to remain outside after nightfall, and for good reason.

Nevertheless, Solomon could not deny the effectiveness of Atlesian Technology. From what he was allowed to know, their computing technology allowed them to process 72 hours' worth of footage in a matter of seconds. Using their highly advanced biometric identification software, the Atlesians managed to pinpoint the creature's last known location to an area close to a supermarket in the Western District. More specifically, it was surveillance camera 141W, positioned in a manner that allowed it a view of some thirty meters of the alleyway. Imagine all the cases that could have been solved, the justice that could have been carried out.

Solomon had not seen much of the footage. The most he got was a full-body image of the creature captured when it broke into the Western Sector. It immediately became clear to him why Rosa viewed the boy as some sort of…religious figure. The boy's body was, for all intents and purposes, perfect, and Solomon remembered the mystical allure he felt through the screen when he first laid eyes upon the creature. He wondered what it would have been like if he saw it in the flesh. Would he be entranced by the creature's beauty? Or would he be repulsed by the thing's artificiality?

For now, he would be at the beck and call of his superiors, ready to solve any new problems that may appear. Anything else was secondary. That meant that the case he was currently investigating — the case of Roman Torchwick's attempted robbery of a dust store in the Western Sector — had to be put on hold. With the run-down technology in Vale, criminals like Torchwick could spend months as free men and women before the strong arm of the law caught up with them. At least the prevalence of organized crime wasn't as bad as it was in Mistral, where the largest black market in Remnant operated right under the nose of the Mistrali Council. Solomon shuddered at the thought of walking alone at night in the ghettos of Mistral.

Just then, his scroll buzzed in his pocket. Someone was calling him. Better get to work, then.

* * *

**The Boy Who Would Be King**

**0804 hours, 6th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Atlesian Time**

**Western Sector, Commercial District, Vale**

The boy who would be king stalked the shadows now. Though it hadn't been officially announced to the public, it was no secret to him that he was being hunted.

No, spied on was the more appropriate expression. They wouldn't dare to fight him, at least not by themselves. He remembered the look on Krow's face the previous night. Not that he believed that 'Krow' was his real name, of course.

This he could forgive. It was only natural for them to be curious. Afraid. They had every right to be afraid of him after what had occurred the night before. He could have ended the huntsman's life there and then by driving the sleek rod of wrought iron straight through his neck. He knew he was faster than him. Much faster. Stronger? Not quite.

Or rather, not yet.

But then again, it was possible that such a blow wouldn't have scratched him due to the protective nature of his aura. The boy knew how powerful aura could be from the books many books he'd read in the library. Sure, the huntsman's aura could have been gravely diminished if he'd landed the blow, but as a being who had not unlocked his aura, the boy was at a much greater risk of death than the huntsman.

Breaking an aura was simple — simply deal a sufficient amount of damage and one's aura will be fully depleted, leaving him or her vulnerable to even the slightest of injuries. Logic dictated that some forms of harm depleted a greater amount of aura than others, and vice versa.

The boy wondered if he could unlock his aura. More fundamentally, did he have an aura? From what he had read in the library, only with the help of aura were huntsmen able to move at incredible speeds and react to arrows and bullets as though they were no more than mere annoyances. They most certainly could not rely purely on their biologically derived strength to move at such speeds.

In the present, the boy looked at his arms and legs. He knew he was growing — his muscles were much broader and well defined than they were when he first stepped out of the smouldering wreckage of his cradle engine. He noticed that his slender frame was also a little taller now, by just an inch or two.

The boy placed a finger on his bicep and flexed casually. It was unnaturally hard, harder than the dirty concrete he now stood on. But they weren't all that large. He had seen men on the street with arms twice as large as his, some larger still. But if there was any view he held with the utmost certainty — it was that he could tear their fleshy forms apart as easily as he could snap a dry twig in two.

What was he then?

Any living organism with a soul can use aura.

X is a living organism and has a soul.

Therefore, X can use aura.

The simple syllogism, however logical, had a limitation in determining the presence of aura in a certain kind of organisms. Firstly, none of this applied to creatures born outside of Remnant. In other words, organisms born outside of Remnant do not fulfil the criteria for having an aura. Was his soul different? Did he even have a soul? How does one know if he has a soul? Did he not have a soul?

It seemed impossible that this was the case. Whatever the case, this was simply a pet curiosity of his. He had other things to worry about apart from souls and spirits and semblances. Besides, if there was anything that proved the existence of his soul, it was probably the fact that the was somehow able to destroy the surveillance cameras with a thought.

The boy jogged down the cold alleyway. His forehead sheened with perspiration and his unwashed body had begun to take on a mild odour. It was nothing unpleasant, just a slight deviation from the smell he was used to. From what he knew, the public toilets had free showers in them. He could visit one anytime he wished.

Suddenly, there was a scream. It forced his train of thought to a screeching halt.

The boy's footsteps died immediately as he stood still, as silent as a shadow. The female's scream came again, accompanied this time by a trio of voices that seemed to have been produced by the male kind of humans. The boy could hear the debauchery in their voices, and the cries of the female had evolved into a soft, agonized bleating.

The boy pinpointed the location of the woman's cries. It was well within the territory of the White Fang, a radical organization under the leadership of Sienna Khan. She was a wanted criminal by Atlas Military for organizing an innumerable number of raids on SDC transport vehicles and assassinations of SDC employees. The boy gnashed his teeth in anger at the injustice as he sprinted down the alleyway, a ragged blur of dirty clothes.

The men had her pinned to the ground. Cynthia screamed as they tore her clothes off. Each of them was stronger and faster than her. She had virtually no chance of escape.

"Didn't they tell ya this place belonged to us Faunus? Guess ya eggheads would never know!" yelled the largest of her assailants as he ripped her pants off. Cynthia kicked at him, screaming, but one of the man's cronies caught her legs and held them down with ease.

"Don't struggle. This will go much easier if ya don't. Maybe you'll even enjoy it…" said the man, grinning lecherously at the woman's nether regions. She screamed some more, much to his delight.

"Maybe I'll enjoy this."

The mirthless voice was a wrong note that broke the fugue of violence. All the shouting and screaming had drowned out the footsteps of the boy. Not that it needed to. The gangsters fell silent as they turned to look at him.

The boy stood a dozen meters from the scene. The woman looked at him through a pair of teary eyes. The boy stared back with all the compassion in the world in those void black orbs. Their eyes met for a brief moment before the boy turned back to her assailants.

"Animals," he said, with disgust and hatred that could kill. His black eyes narrowed into slits. The leader of the gang shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Instinctually, the hardened criminals could sense something different about the boy, though they couldn't quite put a finger on what it was.

"Boy, why don't you just piss off, yeah?" shouted one of the man's cronies.

"Let her go."

"Are you fucking deaf?" shouted the same man.

"Let her go," whispered the boy.

"Get him, Richard!" shrieked the leader of the trio. The gangsters pulled out their weapons from their sheaths. They were machetes, crude but effective weapons. Cynthia watched helplessly as one of them advanced on the child, who appeared to be no older than a thirteen-year-old.

"Run, boy!" screamed Cynthia. "They'll kill you!"

The boy ignored her pleas and stood his ground until the bull Faunus was a good six meters away from him. Richard charged.

And then, all hell broke loose. The first machete was a dull grey shimmer, its killing edge aimed directly at the boy's neck. It moved faster than the human eye could see, but the boy was no human.

Richard had a fleeting impression of the creature as it weaved underneath his arm.

It was over in a heartbeat.

He felt the force of a sledgehammer smash into his chest. Warm liquid trickled down his abdomen. Frozen in shock, the machete slipped from his moribund fingers and clattered harmlessly onto the dirty concrete floor.

Killing had never been difficult for the boy. He simply lacked the moral hesitation humans did at committing the darkest of deeds.

His creator had made sure of that.

He was a creature bred for war, first and foremost. Everything else was secondary.

This he realized the instant he plunged his fingers into the man's soft, animal flesh. He cupped the man's still-beating heart in his cold white fingers, now sullied with the man's animal blood. His fingers dug deeper, but there was no secondary heart. The boy smiled. He knew that he was truly a breed apart.

Richard saw that smile as weakness paralyzed his body. He dropped down to his knees where his blood pooled, and the boy stared down at him through his cold black eyes, still smiling. The smile disappeared when the boy ripped his heart from his chest in one swift, merciless movement.

Richard slumped onto the floor. The others watched in pure primal terror as the boy placed a sandaled foot on his head and bore down on it with the power of a hydraulic press. It resisted for a second before violently exploding in a swirl of bone, blood, and brain fragments.

Cynthia screamed.

"R-R-R-Richard…" The leader of the trio trailed off wordlessly as the boy rose with the dead heart in his hand. Their grips on their machetes loosened, and fear soiled their clothes. It had all happened so quickly. One moment, their mate appeared as though he had felled the boy with a single blow of his machete. The next, he was dead with his killer looming over his corpse and his heart clutched in the boy's red fingers.

"I'm hungry," complained the boy. "So very hungry. I require sustenance to continue my duty. Why am I even here? Why can't you just obey the law? Why am I surrounded by criminals like you?"

Cynthia and her assailants watched in horror as the boy took a bite out of the heart in his hand. Delicious. It was an animal's heart. A bull's, to be specific. He couldn't fathom eating his own kind.

The boy bent down and retrieved the machete, spinning it in his hand with the elegance of a master. It was as though he had known how to use it all along.

"A death far too merciful for creatures like him. Like the both of you," muttered the boy, gesturing at Cynthia's assailants.

"This _animal_ must be Devon," murmured the boy, looking at the sheep Faunus, the largest of the trio, or rather, duo. Richard's memories flooded his mind. The boy saw snippets of the man's life, from his birth to his recent departure from the mortal plane. He was raised in poverty and joined a Faunus gang on his sixteenth birthday. He was a murderer, a thief, a rapist.

"This _animal_ must be Tom," said the boy, turning to look at the deer Faunus who stood beside him. They were trembling. Good.

"And the _animal_ I just killed was…Richard," said the boy, taking delight in enunciating the word. "Not that I did not already learn it from what Devon said."

In a sporadic bout of rage, he kicked the corpse with such force that it shattered the alley wall that it struck, snapping its spine in two. Devon and Tom winced at the boy's explosive violence.

"H-H-How did you know our names?" asked Devon. "W-What are y-you?"

The boy snickered. He took another bite out of Richard's heart. It crunched like an apple, red and sweet. Perhaps it would taste better barbequed than raw. The boy listened to the silent thunder of their accelerating hearts and the drops of animal sweat that fell unto the floor. This was fear, pure and simple. Perhaps these animals could still be reasoned with. The boy did not

"What are you?" asked Devon, firmer now, steeling his nerves.

"What am I?" he hissed, casting him a glance that turned his blood to ice. "What might I be? Is there a more absurd question you could ask? What do you think I am?"

The boy paused, giving the duo time to collect their thoughts.

"You…no…" said Devon, his voice quivering with emotion as he arrived at the horrid realization. The moment rested on a knife's edge. "You can't be it…"

"My kind tolerates the filth of yours so very much. Your very existence is a testament to their tolerance. But back to the question — what I _am_ matters not to you."

The boy giggled. Cynthia wanted to run, but her legs were frozen stiff with fear at the sound of his voice and the threadbare sanity of his laughter. He took another bite out of her assailant's heart. It tasted great, but the boy was disappointed now.

"Hmm…no more memories? As expected of your pitiful intellects," remarked the boy. He crushed the ball of muscle in his hand, and blood spurted out of it like water from a squeezed rag. The boy let the piece of abused meat drop from his bloody hand, onto the dirty concrete floor. His voice was quivering with rage and emotion.

"You are obscene creatures, all of you Faunus. Damn Faunus. You fornicate like beasts and multiply like rabbits. You create your little organizations and stage your pathetic rebellions in protest of the rightful punishments meted out to your kind for the sin of your collective existence. It is universally agreed by humans that Faunus are capable of love and compassion, but all I have seen today are the perpetrators of the darkest of deeds and a surprising display of cowardice. Perhaps there are good Faunus that I will spare, but not you. The magnitude of your sins is beyond reckoning, and I have watched your crimes from the shadows long enough."

A tear fell from his right eye.

"What I am matters not to you," continued the boy, hardening his voice. It boomed like thunder. "The role I have selected following my arrival on this world will mean very much to you _animals_ in these last seconds of your meaningless lives. I am an emissary of civilization. I am an exterminator of animals like you. I am judge, jury, and executioner. And I will stand for no injustice while I still draw breath."

The gangsters dropped their crude machetes and ran in fear, but they were far too slow. From the boy's perspective, at least.

He pounced.


	7. Chapter 7

**Animals**

**VPD**

**The first traitor**

* * *

**0817 hours, 6th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Valean Time**

**Western Sector, Commercial District, Vale**

"Stay here," said the boy. Cynthia could distinguish no malice in his voice, but she could tell that there was a tired quality to it. She nodded fervently, both grateful for his protection and terrified by his strength and explosive violence.

The boy leapt from wall to wall in a display of acrobatics that appeared to defy physics. The brickwork buckled and cracked under the immense weight of his musculature. He caught up to Devon and Tom in a heartbeat.

Tom turned to look. He did not see anyone but his victim, cowering in the distance. There was a flash of silver. The boy's newfound machete imprinted a fleeting figure of eight in his eyes as it flashed through the air. It was the last thing he would ever see.

The boy ignored the headless body as it toppled. He backhanded Devon into the brick wall on the left as the gangster turned in alarm. The boy listened to the mushy snap of ribs and cartilage turning to powder, and the tremendous bang as the man's muscular body smashed against the vandalized wall with enough force to liquefy his organs, shattering the warm red surface of the alleyway's brick wall.

Miraculously, he was still alive. The man gulped precious air in staggered wheezes through a bloody trachea, and his face twitched maddening tics as he stared down the boy, who approached the dying man with hatred burning in his eyes.

Devon appeared to have been paralyzed, though it was unclear where the spinal fracture had occurred. The wall was a mural of gore, and the man's shirt was turning dark with blood. His back was bent at an awkward angle, and it was a miracle that he was alive at all.

The man spat at the boy's shoes. The boy came to an ominous halt. He stared at the disgusting blob of saliva that sullied the dirty floor. And then, he spoke.

"You invited death and destruction upon yourself by daring to commit the greatest of sins. And yet, here you are, surrounding yourself with an air of righteousness, defiant until the very end. Your hubris…is beyond reckoning," said the boy. His face was unreadable — no paler than marble, no more alive than stone. "You are truly an animal deserving of extermination."

"L-Look…w-w-who's talk—"

The pain was immediate and searing. The man screamed as the worst pain he'd ever felt radiated from the ruin of his face to the rest of his body. The man screamed as the acid ate away at his face, his eyes, and scalp. The man screamed the best he could without a tongue or any teeth, a flesh red skull attached to a body that was very much alive.

The acrid stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. It was the smell of justice. The man's screams must have torn his vocal cords to shreds, for all that remained was a pathetic whimper.

Cynthia heard the screams of her assailant in the distance. It belonged to the sheep Faunus. She saw the boy looming over Devon's body. She saw him lift the man over his head with contemptible ease. The boy's muscles flexed, and the man was torn in two.

The boy squatted over the corpse of the Faunus named Tom. Cynthia watched as his hand plunged into the man's chest with ease that appeared to defy physics. His hand emerged with the man's dead heart grasped in long red fingers.

Cynthia closed her eyes, sobbing, feeling the heat of her saltwater tears streaking down her cheek. Despite everything they did and would do to her, she couldn't help but feel a shred of sympathy for them. If what the boy said has been true, they had truly led miserable lives as the dregs of society. Nevertheless, there had always been a choice for them to do the right thing, and if the creature had been honest about anything, it was that their deaths were far too quick and painless for the weight of their sins.

Cynthia felt a cold hand upon her shoulder. She flinched. A wet hand covered her mouth before she could scream. Cynthia opened her eyes and stared into a pair of cold black orbs. The boy did not wait for her to speak.

"I apologize for dirtying your clothes, but I'm certain that we are deep in White Fang territory. The animals I just dispatched were members of a particularly violent offshoot of the White Fang," said the boy, taking a bite out of the heart and removing his hand from her mouth. "An intimidation force, it seemed. They seemed to have been off duty. The mindless brutes would have raped you for sport for the sin of being human. What occupation do you hold?"

She saw crimson flashes of bloodstained teeth through the boy's geisha red lips as he spoke. Cynthia recoiled at the ferric stench of death in his hot breath and backed away from him.

But the boy suddenly seemed much calmer, more rational now. His grip on her shoulder was deceptively gentle, and his voice was mellifluous with warmth. It filled her with courage and lifted her spirits. She found the strength to stand immediately, but the pain of the cuts and scrapes on her knees and her legs kept her from doing so. A politician could practice for a thousand years and not achieve a fraction of the boy's charisma.

"I-I'm just a software engineer. W-W-Was there no other way?" she asked, her voice quivering with emotion. The boy smiled, and by far it was the most terrifying thing Cynthia had ever seen. His teeth were stained a vivid crimson that juxtaposed sharply against his white marble cheeks. The boy licked the blood off his teeth with a long, wet tongue, and they glittered like diamonds in the dark.

By far, the most stunning thing about the boy was his beauty. He divine, utterly perfect in all aspects imaginable to mankind. Perfection made flesh, and wrath incarnate. A terrible sight to behold.

"They were animals. _Beasts_ , more appropriately. I could have handed them over to the authorities. But the punishment meted out for the sin they would commit was too small, far too…lenient," said the boy.

"So, killing them is the correct way?" asked Cynthia.

"Yes. Some deserve to live, others do not," explained the boy.

"And who are you to decide?"

"It is my duty, as a creature above and beyond the ones of this world. Don't you want justice to take its course? Every sin will be punished accordingly. That is the law. That is _justice_. These men would have committed the gravest of moral transgressions against you, and I have committed the gravest of moral transgressions against them. That is the very essence of the _Lex Talionis_ , the law of retaliation, or, to put it bluntly, 'An eye for an eye'," explained the boy, his eyes narrowing into predatory slits. "It is an axiom of Justice itself. Countless human cultures have embraced it, either out of sheer, survivor's necessity or because of their contrived and 'elegant' and 'intellectually rigorous' rationalizations, and _you_ may reject it out of ideals that you believe to be moral and enlightened, but it is a precept that is marrow bound to your species and mine."

The boy paused and inclined his head curiously at the woman's form.

 _Well, he kind of sounds like someone with a god complex...notwithstanding the fact that he might actually be one,_ thought Cynthia.

"Yes, this is what I have believed in, ever since I witnessed my first crime," said the boy, who inched closer and closer to Cynthia. "But it is true that to preserve the _state_ , as it is commonly understood, laws must be severe and justice must be swift. For in the state of nature the life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. That is why we have all signed a social contract. That is why we live in a society in accordance with an agreement that establishes a series of moral rules of behaviour known as the Law."

"I-Is that what you think? That the concept of justice is merely a…a veneer of enlightenment and elegance?"

The boy smiled. He loomed over her in a gargoyle's crouch, and she felt his hot breath against her body.

"Yes. Justice connotes enlightenment and elegance, but it hides an ugly truth. That is what we all agree with, one way or another," hissed the boy.

"Why are you here? On this world, I m-mean?"

"I don't know," said the boy. "It is perhaps the only question I have failed to answer. If you stumbled upon a watch in the wastes of Vacuo, you would be a fool not to question the origins of its apparent contrivance and design. You would, however, not be a fool if you did not have ruminations of a similar nature after stumbling upon a rock. In other words, you would be a fool to believe that there would be no watchmaker, and I'd be a fool to believe that I had no intended purpose."

"O-Oh…" muttered Cynthia. "I-I-Interesting analogy. You adapted it from Eliezer's t-teleological argument, I presume?"

There was a look of innocent surprise on the boy's face.

"Indeed. I derived a spark of inspiration from the seemingly profound, and yet… fallacious witticisms of that human philosopher," mused the boy, his sibilant voice rising and falling like waves on a beach. There was a hint of derision in his voice, though it was not directed at Cynthia. "You are well-read."

"T-thanks. I-It's required reading as part of t-the literature module in the AIT," said Cynthia.

"You're from Atlas?"

"Y-Yeah. Moved here a few months ago after graduating. The market for software programmers is saturated over there with fresh grads, and I only had a second-class degree. The salaries here are good for AIT grads due to competition for skilled workers," explained Cynthia.

There was a pause as the boy examined her face. Micro-expressions that lasted for a fraction of a second were easily spotted. He read her like a book. She was telling the truth.

"I see."

"But…A-Animals. Why do you call them that?" whimpered Cynthia. The boy did not reply. He stood up to his full height and examined her body. She was nearly naked, clinging to rags of her clothes to preserve her dignity.

While he ate the heart of her assailant, he did not feel the desires that turned men into raving beasts and fiends as his eyes flashed over her body, scanning for injuries. He listened to her ragged heartbeat and breathed in the scent of her dirty sweat that sullied her rags and soiled her skin.

Now that the boy got a good look at Cynthia, his mind began cataloguing her characteristics at breakneck speeds. She was of average height at roughly five feet and seven inches, six inches taller than himself. She possessed a slim build and a pale complexion. She was twenty-one or twenty-two years old, perhaps. Cynthia wore a pair of black glasses, and a spiderweb's fracture streaked across one of its lenses.

"Simple lacerations. No sign of internal bleeding. Aside from a slight risk of infection, these are not dangerous injuries," remarked the boy. "I don't have any spare clothes, so you'll have to be naked for now. Your heart is beating rather quickly."

That was the least of Cynthia's worries. She was, however, curious as to how the boy could listen to her heartbeat.

"So, what now?"

"The Whit—"

The boy groaned and collapsed with a feeble whimper. He placed ten red fingers to his hair matted temples.

"What's the matter?" asked Cynthia, visibly concerned. She hobbled to his side and shook him, noting the incredible hardness of his lean muscles. There was a short pause before the boy regained his focus. He got back to his feet and regained his regal form.

"Their cronies are arriving. They have guns. You won't be able to dodge their bullets," whispered the boy.

"How do you know? Where are they?" whispered Cynthia, an obvious panic in her voice.

"No time to explain. There," hissed the boy, pointing to the junction ahead of them, where two paths fed into one. "Too late to run. Three will come from the left and two will come from the right. Five more are coming behind that…hnnghhh…initial wave. They'll reach us in approximately eleven-point forty-five seconds and counting. Hide behind that dumpster and do not reveal yourself until my return. Go!"

Cynthia broke out into a dead sprint, alarmed by the urgency in the boy's voice. She made a beeline towards the massive dumpster behind them, and slid behind it, away from the view of anyone who looked in from the junction.

The fastest of them arrived in roughly eleven seconds, just as the boy had anticipated.

The scream had sounded like Devon's, and if anything had happened to him, there would be hell to pay for the one responsible, friend or foe.

Just twenty minutes ago, he and his lieutenants said that they saw a pretty woman wander into the White Fang's territory. They went, of course, propelled by the hormonal drives that turned men into pigs — just a method of stress relief by taking it out on a human — but when they didn't call or report back after fifteen minutes, his cronies couldn't dispel the urge to investigate.

As they got closer, they heard a scream. A woman's scream. The White Fang thugs snickered amongst themselves, taking a sadistic glee in hearing the plight of the human. Three minutes later, they heard a sound that chilled them to the bone. It was a scream.

Unmistakeably, it was Devon's.

The fastest of them arrived in ten seconds. The slower ones noticed the spreading confusion on the faces of their brethren, whose footsteps had halted mid-stride. Something was on the other end of the alleyway. It was a boy.

A boy sat on the concrete floor, back faced to them. His clothes had been drenched in what appeared to be blood. The boy appeared to be eating something. Something that crunched like an apple as he bit into it and had the consistency of flesh.

And then they saw it.

Rested on the floor, next to the boy, was a large machete. Every single one of the gangsters knew who it belonged to.

Their eyes slowly turned to the alley, even further beyond the boy. Three bodies. Their necks terminated in bloody, sometimes messy stumps. One had been torn in two. Gore decorated the walls. The boy had not a scratch on his body, but their mates had been mauled so viciously that, had this not occurred in the confines of a city, the cause of their deaths would have been hypothesized to be a Grimm attack. It was then that they came to the instant, terrible realization as to what the boy truly was.

The men unsheathed their machetes, soiling their grips with anxiety. With his back faced them, the boy listened to the silent thunder of their speeding hearts and smelled the stark scent of their sweat. Everyone had a unique scent, but the muscone odour of Faunus-kind irritated him the most. Half of it he appreciated on a level he would never understand — the human part — and the other half he _despised_.

The boy finished eating. He got up to his full height, the height of the average thirteen-year-old. He turned and stared at the men with a look of hatred that could kill. The boy picked up the machete and made a graceful flourish, an act so elegant that it was undeserved by such a crude weapon, as though he were mocking the previous owner of the weapon.

There was a scream. A bull Faunus gave a maddened roar of anger. Emotions clouded his rationality — if he possessed any in the first place — as he raised his machete and charged towards the boy with all the inelegance in the world.

"Bert, wait!"

His gangmates screamed out in unison alarm, but it was too late. Bert roared, and his machete swung down at the boy with enough power to cleave a man's body in half, a deadly grey shimmer of crude scrap steel.

Too slow.

The boy did not speak. He stepped to the side with unbelievable grace and ease, and Bert's machete struck empty air. Warriors traded height for strength, and muscles for speed. This one belonged to the latter category.

Bert was a large bull Faunus of six foot one. His muscles were vast, as was typical for most Faunus by virtue of their impure heritage. By some stroke of luck, his street smarts had earned him a place in the White Fang's intimidation forces. Many a maidenhead had been lost at the point of his sword, in his many campaigns against Atlesian corporations.

He gave a cry of hate and swung the crude blade at the boy's midriff. It flashed through the air and struck opposing metal. The boy sneered, holding up his machete with a single arm while the Faunus used both of his. His biceps barely flexed as the man bore down with all the strength he could muster, all while grunting in rage and frustration.

The boy disengaged. He moved with impossible speed, appearing behind the large man before the latter could react.

The blade of his machete fell lightning-fast, slicing through flesh and muscle like a knife through smoke. The killing edge severed the muscles of Bert's trapezius and eliciting a spray of red that drenched the floor with gore. It immediately became apparent to the boy that the man had not yet unlocked his aura.

He was lucky, then. He wasn't sure if there was a certain way to defeat aura empowered beings, or if wearing them down by brute force was the most efficient way to break an aura. Either way, he would be at a major disadvantage if he'd ever had the misfortune of engaging an aura empowered human or Faunus, like a huntsman.

Weakness flooded the Faunus' left arm as his friends watched on, reluctant on entering the fray for fear of what might become of them. Bert's back was bare to the bone — his teammates caught glimpses of pink raw ribs as his muscles tensed and slumped — and his shirt was utterly drenched in red.

The man stumbled around in a daze. He was in shock, mentally and physically. He had never seen a person move with such quickness, such finesse, save for a couple of hired huntsmen he had the misfortune of running into in the past. The pain barely registered in his adrenaline loaded nervous system, but instinctually he felt his life draining away, gushing out of him in raging rivers and torrential tributaries as the weakness consumed him. He felt a terrifying wetness on his back, and at last, he felt sleepy, so very sleepy.

Bert stumbled around, swinging his blade with an arm that drooped with hypoxic weakness at the boy as his friends looked on in horror. The boy circled him; blade raised in perfect posture, the pose of an executioner before the final act.

It was over in an instant.

His movements were godlike, an inconceivable blur to the onlookers. The killing edge of the machete smashed into Bert's neck. In place of the man's head was now a bleeding stump and the perpetual upward gush and fall of arterial red.

Bert's headless corpse toppled immediately, and the boy flicked the blood off the blade of his machete. Such was the boy's speed, that the onlookers had barely registered the blow even as Bert's severed head landed on the dirty concrete floor.

There was a calm after the storm. The boy cleaned his blade with his shirt as the gang studied him warily. He knew they wouldn't attack.

He knew that he would. The boy waited for them to reply. He studied them curiously. He listened to their speeding hearts and watched the hairs rise on their arms and legs and necks in a primal display of fear.

It was the one thing that humans and Faunus alike had in common. It was so predictable. They all did the same things, whether voluntarily or involuntarily. They pissed and shat in their pants and their hearts would beat like parade drums.

"W-Who a-a-are you?"

They spoke at last, and the boy stared at the one who raised the question. Disgust was painted all over his face in the colour of blood. The hardened gangmate shifted uncomfortably under his piercing gaze.

The boy raised his arms and spread his wings, rearing to his full height as he stretched his tendons. Though he was much shorter than them, the gangsters and bandits trembled as they felt the pressure of his being. It bore down on them with the weight of a mountain, so immense that they might as well have been ants pushing against an elephant. And then, when his sneer faded, the boy's face was a portrait of hatred and serenity — utterly indecipherable.

Seconds passed, and at last, the boy stared at the hesitant gangsters with hollow black eyes, wet stones dropped into the sockets of a skull, and spoke—

"Justice."

The boy charged.

The fastest of them saw him as a blur of red rags. The slowest of them did not see him at all. All perished the same under his machete in a matter of heartbeats as he weaved between their ranks, taking the killing edge of the crude blade to their necks. Heads rolled, and the light brick walls turned dark with their impure animal blood.

The boy was already advancing along the wide alleyway before their corpses hit the floor. He caught sight of the bird Faunus at the end of the corridor. He was raising his gun, just as the painful visions had foretold.

The boy caught sight of the bullet as it left the barrel through a white-hot muzzle flash. He saw the shockwave blooming in the air as the bullet sailed towards him in stark uniformity to the chaos around him. He saw it as time hung in the air, as meaningless as a snowflake in a blizzard, as the world stood in timeless tableau. The boy was already moving — already turning by the time the dust round had cleared three feet.

Jeffrey and his cronies had the fleeting impression of a blur of red and white as they fired at the child. He had dodged the bullet, of course. Jefferey fired again, but the boy smashed the three bullets aside with contemptible ease.

Jeffery had no other choice but to keep firing and hope that his bullets were faster than the blades of his men. Bright gold sparks erupted into the air as they were smashed aside yet again, all as the attack came from both sides as the gang rushed him as one.

The boy was faster. He weaved under the gangsters and brought the machete deep into their abdomens, disembowelling them with a silvery figure of eight. The two men collapsed. Three more to go.

Jefferey screamed in fear and anger as the boy drew closer, inexorable in his pursuit of justice. He plucked a magazine from his breast-pocket and slapped it into the well of his pistol. He heard the pained screams of his men as the boy killed them one by one. This wasn't a fight. A fight was not a one-sided affair. This was a slaughter.

He fired. Jefferey winced at the saltwater sting of sweat as it streaked down his cheeks and eyelids. He blinked it away.

Red flashed like lightning as the boy sealed the distance before his eyes opened. He slapped the pistol away with a contemptuous snicker, and then Jeffery felt a sharp, searing pain in his chest, a hot knife to a nerve.

Jefferey inclined his head to see the dirty hilt of the cold machete. The blade was through one of his lungs with a dozen centimetres to spare. It had been buried to the hilt. It was gripped by a bloody, dirty hand. It was the hand of a boy. The hand of a teenager. A perfect hand that ended in five raking talons, long and dirty. He traced the arm to the void black eyes of the boy. Their eyes met for the last time. His face was no paler than alabaster, no more alive than stone.

"Shh…" whispered the boy as he brought Jeffery down to his knees. Their faces were centimetres apart, so close that they could have kissed, so close that Jeffery could feel the boy's hot, ferric breath upon his own chapped lips. The stench of death was overwhelming. The boy noted the man's youthful features. Jeffery was around eighteen or so, one of the younger members of the gang. A life of crime was coming to a close.

"You're in shock now. This won't hurt if you stop moving…"

The boy's arcane biology regenerated the tiny cuts and scrapes that he'd incurred in the act of slaughtering the gangsters. He felt himself swelling with power — energy that seeped freely from what appeared to be cracks in the very fabric of reality if such a crude analogy could be applied. The boy bathed in the sorcerous energy that flowed freely throughout the planet, feeling it enrich himself tenfold more than —

The voice from the nights before whispered again. The boy's focus snapped back to the present as he resisted.

"D-Die, monster," hissed Jeffery through bloodied teeth and lips. The boy inclined his head curiously to look at the blood choked countenance of the bird Faunus. He felt something cold and hard pressed against his chest, and his glazed opal eyes sheened with the blooming, white-hot flash of gunfire.

Even the posthuman body of the boy did not allow him to keep up with his arcane reactions. He saw the explosion blooming. A hot flash of pain radiated across his belly. He began to turn, but it was all too late. The shockwave rippled through his flesh, severing tissues, and disrupting neural bundles. But the bullet…the solid sphere of lead and copper merely cracked his fused ribcage, travelling less than halfway through the arcane matrix of gene-forged osteoblasts and ultradense bone.

Jeffery's eyes widened in horror as the boy remained before him, as unmoving as a statue, his grip on the machete's hilt unfaltering. The boy smiled; his teeth stained by blood that did not belong to him. He tore the secondary weapon from fingers that offered no resistance and crushed it into shards of sharp black metal under a heavy foot.

"N-No…" wheezed Jeffery through weak jaws. Defiant till the end, just like Devon.

"Yes," croaked the boy. "I have survived."

"O-Our leader w-will kill y-you…"

"Your leader. Adam," repeated the boy, casting Jeffery a level stare. "Adam Taurus."

"H-How did y-you know?"

"I learned it…by eating Devon's heart," he explained. He did not wait for Jeffery to speak.

\+ I have grand plans for this kingdom, beast, and it will be built on the blood of animals and sinners like you. +

The boy spoke without speaking. His thoughts were hammered into Jeffery's cerebral cortex, driven like nails through wood. Jeffery's eyes widened in fear, but slowly they closed in acceptance. The criminal remained defiant, sneering weakly.

"Y-You…will a-always b-b-be…a…k-k-ki—"

The boy jerked the blade to the left, severing Jefferey's spinal cord with a stark, mushy crunch. The man's face and arms and legs spasmed involuntarily, dancing a marionette's jig atop a bundle of dead, misfiring nerves. The boy withdrew his blade, and the corpse collapsed to the ground like a wet sack of bones, flesh, and spilt intestines. The boy rose from the floor, feeling the flare of pain as the bullet ground against his fused ribcage as his muscles shifted.

"King," finished the boy, staring down at the corpse of the gangster and wiping the dirty blade with his shirt. "I will be your king. I have grand plans for this kingdom, beast, and it will be built on the blood of animals and…hnnghhh…sinners like you. Of course, I would then be no different from that which you so earnestly wished to classify me as. A necessary evil I embraced the moment I saw your friends attempting to commit the most devious of crimes against the woman."

The boy flicked the blood off his machete, and he squeezed his hand, watching the blood trickle onto the face of the corpse. It was forever frozen in a state of twisted, pained surprise. The boy tasted in his nostrils the scent of the man's stool and urine. The breaking of Jeffery's spine had caused his sphincters to lose control. Jeffery's bowels had voided involuntarily.

The boy reached into the grievous injury and ripped Jeffery's heart from its sinewy foundations. Then, he bit on it.

"Jeffery is it?" he asked. He was silent for a while.

"It is to my great disappointment that my...friend disagrees with my methods. Trust me, I'd love to exterminate your kind. The Faunus kind. But I like to think of myself as a…doctor. My human friend may disagree with my prescription, that all Faunus should be destroyed by virtue of the fact that they are disgusting, vile, abhorrent abominations of nature, but she cannot disagree with the premise that my prescription is predicated upon, that is, my diagnosis — that is, that Faunus are disgusting, vile, and abhorrent abominations of nature. A doctor has his code of ethics. Prevention is always preferred to cure. Thus I must prevent the things you do to humans from ever happening again," said the boy.

He frowned, staring into Jeffery's dead eyes, the eyes of a corpse atop its funeral pyre — glassy and unblinking.

"Am I making a faulty generalization here? Should I not destroy all of the Faunus, but only the White Fang? Are all the Faunus not disgusting, vile, and abhorrent abominations of nature? Surely, the logicians in the crowd will accuse me of committing a faulty generalization, the most egregious of logical fallacies. Surely, there are one or two good Faunus in the population? What is this sheer, unadulterated hatred that I feel towards all Faunus-kind?" mused the boy. "Where is the justice, you may ask, in my crusade against the Faunus? The Faunus, after all, were imprisoned and enslaved and tortured by the humans before the revolution, weren't they? Am I not a paragon of virtue and justice? Am I thus not aware of the transgressions that Mankind has committed against the Faunus? Thus, why do I not care? Where is the justice, the equality, you may ask again?"

The boy stared at the corpse.

"I promise you this, Jeffery. I will not kill them, but neither will I rest until every one of these creatures is chased back to the island of Menagerie. If there is not enough land, then the island will be expanded. Many will come to hate me in this endeavour, humans and Faunus alike. They will believe that I bring death and destruction to their lands and kingdoms. They will not understand, these creatures with small minds and pitiful intellects. But if all the world hated you and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved of you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends. There will be sympathizers in the crowd, too afraid to support my cause. But in time, they will come to know the method to my madness. And when they do, they will know that I bring only _illumination._ The blood of the White Fang is on your hands."

Cynthia listened hard. The sounds of slaughter had died down. She peeked cautiously over the reeking dumpster and saw the boy returning from the right side of the junction. He was wearing a different pair of clothes, an oversized black hoodie, and a pair of khaki trousers.

He stank of blood, and his alabastrine hands were stained a light red hue, blood that did not belong to him. Slowly, she emerged from behind the dumpster, instantly relieved by his presence. He did not say anything when he saw her. He simply smiled. But Cynthia noticed that his gait was different. He walked with a limp and clutched his chest in concealed agony.

"You didn't leave," said the boy. Whether or not he wanted to express it, there was delight in his voice.

"After all you've done for me?" said Cynthia. "Wait, why are you limping? You didn't get shot, did you?"

There was no reply as the boy sat down, propping himself against the brick wall. He took off his shirt, revealing a finely chiseled lattice of abdominal musculature. His eyes flashed over his chest and spotted the site of the injury. The wound had already healed, thanks to his rapid regenerative powers, but the bullet was a different story. Even his physiology could not dissolve lead and copper.

"Is that…"

"An infection," explained the boy, his bloodstained fingers flowing deftly over the hot red patch of skin. "The wound has already healed. The bullet, however, was the host of the myriad microorganisms my body is now responding to. This is the initial immune response, roughly the same on the outside as that of baseline humanity, but completely different on a molecular level. The bullet will not dissolve. A hundred, a thousand, or ten thousand years, it will still be there. In theory."

"Already healed…" said Cynthia, her voice trailing off with disbelief. "How is that even possible? What do you intend on doing with the bullet?"

"It must be removed," said the boy. "One way or another."

"But how?"

"This is how," said the boy. Before Cynthia could stop him, he plunged his dirty nails into the site of the injury. The boy winced in pain, but a strained smile creased his face as his fingers closed around the flattened bullet. It never made it any deeper than an inch. He took a deep breath and ripped the shard of foul metal from the reopened wound.

"Aren't you afraid of an infection?" asked Cynthia wondrously, staring at him.

"I have no need to be," replied the boy calmly, putting his shirt back on. "The police will be here any minute. I have to go."

"Where to?" asked Cynthia, looking at the boy as he sat before her. He was silent. "Do you really want to be running all your life?"

"What do you propose?"

"Well, do you want to come to my house?" offered Cynthia. "We can't go to the police because…well, you know…so you can stay at my house for the time being."

There was a long pause. A look of genuine surprise filled the boy's eyes.

"Really? Have I told you what I intend on doing in the years to come?" raised the boy. His tone darkened. "Can you fathom the depths of my ambitions?"

"N-No, but…wouldn't it be lonely all on your own?" suggested Cynthia. "And as long as you won't do anything bad, I'll let you stay, free of rent. It's the least I could do for your help."

"Bad?" The boy chuckled. Suddenly, he grunted, losing his regal composure for a moment. He gave a displeased groan as he stood. Much of the pain that radiated from the wound had subsided by now, and the heat of infection flared in a great, blooming red, but the wound still tingled whenever he moved.

"The claim of the argument from design was the existence of a creator and a purpose attached to the object. I am that object. What is my purpose? I cannot find one," said the boy softly. "My strength and speed are supreme, my intelligence surpasses your finest intellectuals to the degree that they surpass apes, and my ability to inspire fear and command respect is supreme, even amongst your politicians and kings. What do you think I am?"

"You are my saviour. Our saviour. You will rid the world of crime. You will be the protector of the weak," said Cynthia softly, without an inkling of fear. "Where you come from doesn't matter. I believe what you said — that you didn't find any inherent purpose in your arrival and existence on this planet. But the way you placed yourself in harm's way just to protect someone like me…you're just as human as any of us. Perhaps more human. I can see it in your eyes. You aren't a monster. You aren't the biological weapon that Atlas is making you out to be, all over the news."

"A noble task," affirmed the boy. "But I was never in any harm right from the start. Neither do I care about anyone's interpretations on my purpose here. That is for me to discover."

"Geez, that's cold. Anyways, my house is more of an apartment, actually. It's nearby, ten minutes by foot," said Cynthia.

Apartments. The boy knew that there were a few in the Western Sector, but they were mostly dilapidated condominiums in shady neighbourhoods. The neighbourhoods in the upper-class and the residential district were far safer, but safety was a luxury that came at a great price. Cynthia looked at herself, and her heart sank. "Oh, right. Clothes. I can't go out like this in public."

"Did you happen to bring any?" asked the boy.

Cynthia grabbed her backpack that lay a few feet away from them. She opened it and smiled. Aside from her laptop and water bottle, there was a skirt and a black shirt.

"Dress quickly. We don't have much time to spare," said the boy as he eyed the end of the corridor warily. "I can already hear the sirens in the distance."

"I don't but I'll take your word for it," said Cynthia as she removed whatever remained of her clothes and dressed into the fresh attire. There was no underwear, but that was really the least of Cynthia's concerns.

"Now, before we proceed, I need you to tell me this — according to Section Ten of the Criminal Code of The Kingdom of Vale — Whoever, owing allegiance to the Kingdom of Vale, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the Kingdom of Vale or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall be banished from the Kingdom's grounds or executed," recounted the boy _ad verbatim_. "Therefore, if you are convicted of treason — which you are henceforth liable by virtue of the fact that you will provide me with shelter — you will be banished from the Kingdom. Do you truly wish to take this risk?"

Cynthia gulped at the harsh punishment. It was to be expected of the crime of such a magnitude, but her mind was made the instant Richard perished under his foot. She would follow him.

"Yes," said Cynthia. "I desire, with all my heart, to take this risk."

The boy smiled, but there was great sadness in his eyes.

"Very well then. But first, I must ask you, woman — what is your name?" he asked.

"Cynthia. Cynthia White."

* * *

**0840 hours, 6th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Valean Time**

**Western Sector, Commercial District, Vale**

"My goodness. What on Remnant happened here? Grimm?"

"Don't joke around, Detective. A bladed weapon was used," said Sergeant Logan Gray. "And I can see only human footprints."

"Rhetorical question, Sergeant," sighed Solomon Wong. After the trip by car that took a little over ten minutes from the VPD Western Sector HQ, Wong's hardened gaze panned over the bloodiest scene he'd ever come across in his ten-and-a-half-year career. He cautiously approached the first victim, who lay in two pieces beside the brick wall. The corpses had all been covered in large, opaque plastic sheets.

"This is Devon Bisque. His face is too badly damaged by what appears to be some kind of superacid for facial identification. So is Richard Steel over there," said Logan as he pointed towards a corpse far away from Devon's. "We had to use fingerprint cross-referencing with the registry of citizens."

"Tell me about it," said Wong, walking towards the last corpse in this area of the alleyway that was yet to be named. He pointed at the head of the cleanest kill. "And this one?"

"Tom Slate," said Logan.

"Any criminal records?"

"Yes. Devon Bisque was convicted in 75 AGW of robbery along with these two, and was sentenced to three years of jail," said Logan, pointing at Richard and Tom. "Other offenses include — grand theft auto, shoplifting, burglary, and related felonies. His first crime was committed at the age of ten, but that doesn't mean he has broken the law before that. He and these two are low-ranking White Fang members with ties to Adam Taurus."

"Live by the sword, die by the sword," mused Wong. "Who, or what do you think did this?"

"Huntsman, probably," said the sergeant.

"That would be my guess at first. They certainly have the strength and speed to do something like this," said Wong. "Black market huntsman, perhaps. But something doesn't add up — if they were indeed hired huntsmen, who would want a bunch of low-level thugs dead? It certainly isn't worth the price."

"That's what I thought too," said the sergeant. "I thought it was some kind of hired huntsman. Till I saw this."

Sergeant Gray removed the opaque cover, and what Wong saw shocked him to the core.

"What the — Where's the heart?"

The sergeant snapped his fingers. An assistant brought forth a transparent evidence bag, along with a few other large, airtight bags. She handed them to Logan, who held one clearly in front of Detective Wong.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"A bite mark," confirmed Logan.

"But it seems…human," said Wong. "Look at these teeth marks. Oh…god."

Wong's worst fears had become a reality. The creature from the pod was loose in a densely populated area, and it had already begun killing. He decided against these thoughts with the rest of the crew, but the likelihood that they had stumbled upon the same notion was rather high.

"Did it destroy that camera too?" said Wong, gesturing at a surveillance camera positioned near the roofs. It was a broken, dilapidated machine.

"Nope, White Fang did it," said Sergeant Gray with a chuckle that elicited an odd stare from Wong. "It's almost ironic if you think about it. Also, we found a set of anomalous fingerprints on the shirt of Devon Bisque. We were able to determine that the fingerprints belonged to a female. Possible assault victim?"

"Probably. How did she get away?" asked Wong.

"Don't know. Found a bunch of possible shoeprints around here. Possible vigilante?" suggested Gray, gesturing at the corpses.

"What kind of vigilante eats hearts and has the strength to rip a man in two?" mused Wong, staring sullenly at the corpse of Devon Bisque. It moaned silently from slack, skinless jaws that spoke of perpetual suffering. Sergeant Gray did not reply. He was busily typing something on his scroll. A report to the higher-ups, perhaps.

"Rapists or not, they deserved a fair trial. Not justice delivered at the hands of a madman," said Wong.

"Well, if you ask me, these fuckers deserved it," said Logan, nonchalance rising in his voice. Wong ignored him as he ventured into the crime scene, his boots wrapped in plastic covers.

Bright lemon markers had been placed near several sites of interest throughout the alley. Armed policemen were on standby not only because the scene was fresh and there was a high chance that the killer was still around, but also because this was a hotspot of White Fang activity.

Wong squatted before a latent footprint. It had not yet been treated with aluminum powder, but from his many years of experience in cataloging the various types and brands of shoes, Wong could tell that it was some kind of slipper or a sandal, but it had no brand. Perhaps it was one of those flea market products. None of the dead wore such a shoe.

So far, two shoeprints that belonged to missing shoes had been found. Both were from cheap brands, judging by the lack of brand initials on their soles. One was small, around a size four. The other was adult-sized, around a size eight. Sandals and running shoes. Judging from their size, the owner of the running shoes had been the owner of the torn clothes.

Wong stared around him at the bodies strewn across the concrete floor. It was an utter massacre. It couldn't have been a coincidence then, that the size of the footprints corresponded to the shoe size of the sandals. The sandaled shoeprints were spaced five meters apart — utterly inhuman for what seemed to be a nine-year-old. There was no doubt about it — the creature from the pod had been here.

"Detective Wong?"

Wong turned at the sound of the familiar female voice. It was Sabrina Carmon, his assistant.

"What is it?"

"We got a hit on the anomalous fingerprints found on Devon Bisque's clothes. Cynthia White, here on a Work Permit from Atlas. Degree from AIT in Software Programming. Works as a software programmer at a tech company here in the Western Sector. Lives at #02-01 Azalea Condominium, ten minutes from here. No friends, family, or relatives living in Vale, but her brother, Augustus White, is a Lieutenant in the Atlesian Military. Parents are deceased. Unmarried. No past criminal records," said Sabrina.

Solomon's mind processed the information lightning fast.

"Sabrina, check the police database for any calls that have been dialled in the past hour. You already know which one I'm looking for," said Wong.

"On it, Detective," said Sabrina, whipping out her scroll. "Hmm, there were eleven calls in the past hour. No record of 'Cynthia'. No anonymous callers either."

"Alright. Let's pay Miss Cynthia's residence a visit," said Solomon, his voice high-strung with urgency, "Tell the sergeant to request a search warrant for Miss Cynthia's apartment from the Sector Judge _immediately_ for the possible sheltering of an enemy of the state. I'll be sending him my report in order to prove that there is a probable cause for the search."

"Enemy of the state? W-What are you talking about, Detective?" asked a flustered Sabrina.

Solomon gritted his teeth in frustration and cursed under his breath. They were always so slow to catch up, Sabrina, Logan, and the rest of the incompetents on his team.

"The creature, Sabrina. The damn creature from the pod. It's been here, and it's killed these men, and I'll bet you a thousand lien that Miss Cynthia is sheltering it!" shouted an enraged Solomon.

"There's no evidence to support your theory, Detective!" shouted Logan.

"No evidence? Look around you, Sergeant! No evidence? Look at the shoe size, Sergeant! Four! Guess what else has a shoe size of four? That's right, the monster from the pod!"

"So, what if it is the creature? That doesn't mean that Cynthia is sheltering it!" shouted Logan. "A bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

"It's just a precaution," said Solomon, calming down.

"Well, whether you like it or not, the court doesn't hand out search warrants for 'precautions'. The court hands out search warrants for probable cause that can be logically demonstrated." said Logan, his voice firm and unyielding.

"Alright, Sergeant, let me list down all of the evidence you need in case it hasn't gotten into that thick skull of yours. Cynthia did not call the police. That is an immutable fact based on the call records. Two, the footprints of the creature corresponded perfectly to these shoeprints. Now tell me what kind of child is able to do this amount of damage to an adult male faunus?" asked Solomon, gesturing at the bodies. "What kind of child can rip a man in two? What kind of child has a stride length of five meters? I'll tell you what kind of child does that — a monster dressed in the skin of a child."

"Then where do you think Cynthia is now?" asked Logan.

"I don't know, but I've got a damn good guess where she is. For all we know, she could be fish food at the bottom of the harbour, but she could also be with the creature, and we need to search the most probable areas. That is why I proposed we search her house, damn it!" said Solomon.

Logan sighed. The detective's intuition would always get the better of him, but in matters such as these, intuition was not evidence and thus could not be used in place of evidence in an affidavit supporting the issuing of a warrant.

"How about this — we analyze the footage of all surveillance cameras in a ten city-block perimeter, as well as the footage outside of Cynthia's apartment complex," proposed Logan.

"Fine, but I need to interview Cynthia. Ask her to come in for an interview if you find her. Don't force her if she refuses — just keep an eye on her movements," said Wong.

"Very well," agreed Logan.

* * *

**0830 hours, 6th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Valean Time**

**Western Sector, Commercial District, Vale**

"So, what happened? Why were they assaulting you?" asked the boy, his footsteps echoing loud and clear as they resonated across the walls of the empty alleyway. There was a long pause as Cynthia gathered their thoughts. Her heartbeat quickened, and the boy felt as though he had committed an egregious mistake by asking the question.

"I decided to take a shortcut to the cinema after reading the map of the Western Sector. Then these three guys came out of nowhere and began hitting on me," said Cynthia.

"They hit you?"

"No, no," giggled Cynthia. "No. It's a colloquial term. It means...flirting or…making sexual advances towards someone."

"I see," said the boy.

 _But you don't understand_ , thought Cynthia.

"Why are we running?" asked Cynthia, struggling to keep up with the inhuman stamina of the boy. He looked ahead, navigating the alleyway with mysterious confidence.

"I'll explain later," said the boy. "So, what exactly did they do?"

"They wanted to have a few drinks with me at a nearby bar. I said no, and then they blocked me…did not allow me to pass. They became…angry and shoved me to the ground. That's when I screamed. Then they began to tear my clothes off, and then…you came," said Cynthia.

"I see," said the boy. He looked up at her, examining her body curiously. By the standards of the humans, she was rather beautiful, which explained the undeniably lustful nature of her assailant's motivations. But that was only half of the equation.

"Did you tell them you're from Atlas, not Mantle?" asked the boy.

"Well, yeah, now that I think of it. They thought I wasn't from around here. Must have been my skin colour that made them ask," said Cynthia.

"I understand," said the boy. It made perfect sense now. They were jealous of her Atlesian heritage.

"You're not exactly talkative, are you?" asked Cynthia. The boy did not reply. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about why they did what they did," said the boy.

"Well, don't worry too much about it. It's part of human nature to do these things to each other," explained Cynthia.

"That is no explanation. They were Faunus, Cynthia. They were jealous of the privilege and power you possess. Privilege and power, Cynthia. Tell me, did you come from a wealthy family?" asked the boy.

"Well, not exactly. My parents died when I was little, and I was placed in an orphanage, along with my brother. When we took the aptitude tests as kids, my brother and I got into an excellent school because of our results," said Cynthia.

"They would fault you for your inborn talents. For hatred is marrow bound within their pedigrees, Cynthia. They hated you, Cynthia, from the moment you told them of your origins, notwithstanding the hardships you have endured and the good you have done throughout your life. Any transgression acted against the Atlesian kind would be a display of power. They revel in this power, Cynthia," said the boy softly.

"Well…that's a bit of a stretch. So, what do you plan on doing about it?" asked Cynthia, visibly curious.

"I plan on killing the leader of the White Fang, Sienna Khan. Without her leadership, the White Fang will be fractured into a hundred warring cliques. A struggle for power will ensue after the creation of a power vacuum within the organization. After a while, most of the White Fang members will be killed off in the civil war, and I will return and destroy the rest. But there is another figure within the organization. Adam Taurus. He is stronger, faster, and far more charismatic than Sienna. He is a leader who has won the hearts of many members of the White Fang. The animals I killed earlier were of his faction. I will have to kill them both in order to destroy the White Fang," explained the boy.

"I…see. And how are you going to do that? Nobody's able to find the headquarters of the White Fang, not even Atlas," said Cynthia.

"Unfortunately, I do not yet know of the headquarters' location. The men whose hearts I ate were low-ranking grunts. They could not be trusted with such invaluable information," explained the boy. "I will have to do my own research in the days to come."

"Oh. Well, that's…boring," remarked Cynthia. "And what if you do destroy the White Fang's leadership?"

"Then I will kill every one of their members. It will be easy," said the boy.

"Well, I suppose that will be easy for you," remarked Cynthia.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"W-Well, given how you're so into justice. So, where are we going again?" asked Cynthia. She glanced nervously around the brick walls of the alleyway, into the shadows that lay just a few meters away.

"Azalea Condominium, just as you said. This is the safer route," said the boy. "There are no cameras here, and it is quiet. I can hear all things. The beating of your heart. The movements of the creatures in the dark. The flapping of a moth's wings from ten meters away."

"That's…extremely creepy to know. But, safer? Yeah, totally. It's not like I got…you know…in a similar alleyway twenty minutes ago," said Cynthia. "Do you really know where we're going?"

"I know where we're going. It's just round this bend," said the boy as he turned around the corner, and Cynthia followed suit. Ahead of them was a tall, greyscale building with small, steel-grilled windows. The building was neither dilapidated nor fresh, just brutally plain on the outside. Azalea Condominium, it read in violet neon lights, like the cheesy wall-mounted labels of a love hotel.

"That's the …the building. So that's where this opening led! I never bothered to check it out before! How on Remnant did you know how to get here?"

"I read a map," said the boy blankly. "The condo looks more like a hotel from the outside."

"Really? Never thought of it that way," said Cynthia. "When did you read the map?"

"Two days ago, at the library," said the boy. "It was a map of the district from 78 AGW."

"The entire district? Did you remember the whole thing?" asked Cynthia incredulously as they neared the opening, avoiding the festering morasses of rubbish in the alleyway.

"I think so," said the boy. They came to a standstill, just before stepping onto the open junction, onto the concrete pavement. The alleyway was wide and allowed an open view of the entirety of the building's face. Beyond the opening was a silent, empty road. "Don't move. Don't step into the opening."

"Why?"

"Because there are two cameras aimed directly at this intersection zone," said the boy. "Shouldn't you know?"

"I never paid attention," admitted Cynthia. "Any weird abilities would really come in handy now."

The boy gathered his thoughts. "I could destroy the surveillance cameras with a thought."

"How?"

"I don't know how," said the boy. "But that would be a big mistake."

"Why?"

"You haven't called the police, have you?" asked the boy.

"N-No, why?"

"Did you remember to take your torn clothes and put them in your backpack?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"Good. But there is still a chance that they have your identity," said the boy.

"How?"

You touched your assailants' clothes, did you?" said the boy.

"Y-Yeah, I did, when I resisted," said Cynthia.

"Chances are that the first thing they will think of upon matching your fingerprints to your identity would be to check the CCTV footage from outside your apartment. During my journeys throughout the Western Sector, I destroyed many of their cameras with my thoughts out of pure necessity," said the boy.

"Telekinesis," gasped Cynthia. "A powerful semblance."

"I wouldn't say that they're analogous to a semblance. A semblance must be unlocked before it can be used. I did not need to unlock my abilities," said the boy. "But back to the topic — if they watched the footage of the two cameras outside your apartment, and the footage suddenly cuts to black, it will be evident beyond a reasonable doubt that I have associated myself with you."

Cynthia listened. The boy's reasoning was simple but rock-solid, his logic undeniable.

"That makes a lot of sense," agreed Cynthia. "But isn't it already obvious from the state of the bodies and the footprints you must have left behind that you intervened? And couldn't they issue a search warrant?"

"Yes, but you could always lie to them about how I departed shortly afterwards. A search warrant cannot be issued without a probable cause to search for and seize a person or property," said the boy. "Right now, the picture you paint is of a victim of a horrible crime rescued by a vigilante. That's all. If they decide to interview you, do not decline their request."

Cynthia gave a nod of agreement. "So, do you have a plan?"

"I do. Which floor do you stay on? What's your room number?"

"Floor two, room one," said Cynthia.

"Hmm," the boy muttered. He looked up at the building's many windows. It was more thin than wide. Four rooms across and eleven rooms up. In determining the location of her apartment, too many assumptions had to be made. The likelihood of a fallacious line of reasoning was too high for comfort. Asking her would therefore be the simplest - and safest - solution.

"Can you point it out from here?" asked the boy.

"Sure," said Cynthia. She pointed towards a window on the far-left corner of the building.

"Hmm…" The boy gave a displeased growl. "Does it have a balcony? I can't see it from here."

"There are four apartments on one floor. Two on the front side, the other two behind that. Mine's facing the front with a balcony on the left side."

"I see," said the boy. He noted the height of the roof of the building that stood adjacent to the apartment complex. "This is what we're going to do. On a count of three, you will run towards the door at roughly 50 percent the speed at which we were running, enter the building from the main door, and go to your apartment. I'll meet you on the roof, and I'll tell you when I'll be there."

"You're not talking about jumping onto the balcony, are you?" asked Cynthia.

"That is exactly what I'm going to do," replied the boy. "Are you ready?"

"How are we going to stay in contact?"

"There is a way, but you have to go now," urged the boy.

Cynthia took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts.

"Three, two, one — go!"

Cynthia took off, running towards the doors of the apartment. She unlocked the door with a swipe of her key-card and stepped within, through the heavy steel door that swung open with hydraulic silence. She felt the relieving blast of cold air against her greasy forehead, and stood at the lift lobby, panting heavily for a few seconds.

\+ Cynthia. +

The voice intruded her thoughts as she closed the door behind herself. It was the boy's. A faculty she never knew existed was crystal clear to her with terrifying spontaneity. It was as though she was blind and could now see.

\+ Can you hear me? +

Human language could not describe the aetheric principles that guided Cynthia's formation of her first sentence.

\+ I-Is that you? +

She waited nervously for a reply, and the voice returned, powerful and booming like distant thunder and more familiar than ever.

\+ Who else could it be? Where are you? +

\+ How am I doing this? How are you doing this? Are you a telepath as well? +

\+ I'll explain later. Get moving. Where are you now? +

\+ In the lift lobby. I'm entering the lift. +

\+ Good. There aren't any cameras here. The arrangement of the surveillance cameras in this area is horrendous. So many blind spots. A child could bypass them. Is your apartment the one with the tall blue pot with the disgusting plant on the balcony? +

Cynthia smiled.

\+ Yes, that's the one! +

\+ Alright. I'm waiting. +

The lift gave a ring as it reached her desired floor. The steel doors opened, and Cynthia hurried out onto the granite flooring.

She turned left and saw the reassuring sight of the wrought-iron grilles that separated the rest of the world from her stainless-steel door. She unlocked it with a brass key. It was a simplistic mechanism, but a reassuring one. The grilles closed resoundingly behind her.

A fingerprint scanner blinked green as it authorized her entry, and the steel door before her unlocked with a pneumatic hiss. She pushed it open, revealing the interiors of a simple studio apartment. Minimalistic. There was a living room before her, equipped with the bare necessities — a sofa, a TV set, and a dining table. Ahead of her, a firm wooden door lay to the left of the apartment, partitioning off her bedroom and toilet, and to her immediate left was a simple kitchen.

But Cynthia was most interested in her balcony now. She stopped, dead in her tracks when she felt a feeling that disturbed her to the core. Something was watching her from the rooftops beyond her balcony. She caught sight of it immediately. It stood twenty meters away, a stark white figure against the aged outcrop of the blackened rooftops, hunched over in a gargoyle's crouch.

\+ Open the glass door. +

Cynthia hurried over to the sliding door that partitioned her apartment from the rest of the world. On the outside, it was guarded by an impenetrable lattice of wrought-iron grilles. Glass and iron slid as one as she opened the door. The cool morning wind billowed into Cynthia's apartment, and she caught sight of the boy, his quaint height folded over in the posture of a crone.

\+ Step away from the door. Here I come. +

She obeyed, and backed away into one corner, watching the boy's form unfold through a glass window adjacent to the balcony's door.

\+ Are there algae on the ground? +

The boy inclined his head curiously.

\+ Yes. I won't bear down too hard on it. +

\+ What? +

\+ Is that not what you meant? If I step too hard on the algae, it will leave footprints. +

\+ I…didn't think of that. No, that's not what I meant. I just wanted to tell you that the floor might be slippery because of the algae. Well, whatever floats your boat, right? But how are you going to prevent footprints from forming? +

\+ They won't form. +

With that, the boy charged, covering the twenty meters in under a second. He was as light as a feather. He leapt across the chasm of concrete and vaulted over the wrought-iron balustrade, landing with a feline's finesse in the centre of Cynthia's living room.

Cynthia had barely registered his movements, and yet again she was reminded of the inhuman speeds at which the child could move.

"Sorry for the mess," said the boy. He stared down at the dirty footprints he'd left on the floor as he made his way over to the shoe wooden shoe rack.

"It's alright," replied Cynthia, who closed the door of the balcony immediately, locking it behind her. "You've done so much for me in the past half hour. Use these slippers."

Cynthia threw a pair of large yellow slippers at the boy's feet. He removed Jeffery's boots and slid into them nimbly.

"So," said the boy, looking around the living room. "I take it that you don't live with anyone?"

"No, why do you ask?" asked Cynthia.

"Do you have any relatives in Vale?" asked the boy.

"No, but I have a brother in Atlas," said Cynthia, mopping the dirt off the floor. "Why do you ask?"

The boy was silent. He washed his hands in the steel basin, watching the cracked carmine dissolve into the water. He dried his white hands with a cloth before turning to Cynthia.

"I'm curious," he said. "When do you think the police will come knocking on your door?"

"I don't know…maybe in half an hour?" replied Cynthia, who stared at the beads of water on the clean floor. "Wait, did you touch anything?"

"Not yet," said the boy. Though I did touch the tap's handle. It wouldn't matter. I have a plan for that."

Cynthia gave a grunt of disapproval. "Well, so what now?"

"You don't happen to have any spare clothes, do you?" asked the boy.

"They'd be oversized for you," replied Cynthia.

"That's fine. I'll be oversized for them in a matter of weeks," said the boy. Cynthia looked at him strangely. "Well, I'm taking a shower," said the boy, opening the door to Cynthia's bedroom. "It's in here, isn't it?"

"Yes, you can use the shampoo and soap to clean your hair and body. But…what about the police?"

The boy looked at her oddly. "What about them?"

"They're coming, aren't they? You know it."

The boy glanced at the clock on the wall. He weighed Cynthia's words carefully.

Here he was, staring at the clock at eight fifty-six in the morning, just as he had foreseen. Here he was, thinking of the recursion that inundated this very moment, just as he had foreseen. He fancied hearing the grains of time run out as the seconds passed.

He had seen everything from start to finish, but now the future was murky. He was blinded. He was uncertain. Cynthia wouldn't understand, but everything was on the line now. Everything. He had set the entirety of his computational prowess towards orchestrating everything, from fingerprints he had left behind on the skin and clothing of the brutes, to engineering the speed at which they ran through the alleyway to the, to the very inflexion of his voice.

Every action he had planned, however minute. It all boiled down to the few hours that would come to pass. The boy looked at Cynthia, and said with a sigh —

"They will come."


	8. Chapter 8

_**"Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay** _   
_**To mould me man? Did I solicit thee** _   
_**From darkness to promote me?"** _

**~ The First Heretic**

* * *

**Notice**

**Would-Be Kidnappers**

**Foresight**

* * *

**0926 hours, 6th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Valean Time**

_**Undisclosed Location, Mistral** _

Sienna Khan stared up at the red banners that hung proudly from the dark ceiling. Torches did their best to pierce the perpetual gloom in the grand hallway, and depending on where she looked, the colours of the room oscillated between light crimson and dark mahogany.

The gloom didn't matter. Sienna's night vision was excellent, even amongst her fellow Faunus. She could see in the dark as clearly as in the day and even better was her sense of smell. It was no secret amongst the Faunus community that some variants were superior to others in certain aspects, some even in most aspects.

The throne's red cushions felt soft on her skin. The leader of the White Fang sighed as she stretched her arms ahead of her, feeling her muscles tense and loosen as she did so. She missed the times she had gone on missions with her subordinates, back when the fresh iteration of the White Fang was in its formative years. As the organization inevitably grew, Sienna was forced to use her administrative skills to revamp the organization's chain of command.

One of her guards stepped forth from the darkness behind her. These four men were among the elite of her subordinates, and each was the equivalent of huntsmen. She trained them herself and knew each of them by name, and they were armed with the best weapons the organization could afford.

One of them stepped forth. Sienna's stare at the door did not falter. She did not need to look back — she knew the man by scent, just as she did with the rest of her guards. His name was Leonardo Saffron — the captain of her guards. The livery he wore was no different from the rest of the troupe, but there was a certain deftness to his movements that, when noticed, would immediately indicate to an observer that he was a breed apart.

"High Leader Khan, a messenger has arrived. She is waiting outside the doors," whispered Leonardo.

Sienna gathered her thoughts.

"Bid her enter."

"It shall be done, High Leader," acknowledged Leonardo. He straightened up and spoke into an earpiece attached to his left ear. It buzzed with a reply. The remaining guard stepped forth, out of the shadows. Their spears were held neither in any way menacing nor unprepared. They were silent, as still as a statue, ready to strike at a centisecond's notice.

The doors parted with the groaning of grinding, wrought-iron gears, revealing a tall figure dressed in a stark black stealth-suit with a sheathed sword buckled to her side.

An assassin of the White Fang. Sienna did not expect this. The Faunus was dressed in the formal livery that Sienna was so accustomed to seeing in their shadowy circle. She was a chameleon Faunus, highly sought after by the White Fang for their ability to blend in with the human populace. Assassins. Sienna feared their kind, but she could not deny their effectiveness in severing the heads of major Atlesian corporations.

The assassin strode across the carmine carpet with a steady gait that betrayed little emotion. She was slim but visibly muscular, and on the whole, her body was desirable, but not gorgeous. Her physical gifts were obvious, as with all of her kind. After all, assassins were a rare breed, and distinct phenotypes were the norm.

The assassin kneeled before Sienna at the pomp of her throne. She inclined her head to meet Sienna's scrutinizing gaze.

"High Leader Khan, I come bearing unfortunate news," said the assassin calmly.

"Speak."

"A group of low-ranking grunts in Vale were massacred in an alleyway by what I believe to be the creature from the pod," said the assassin.

There was silence.

"How much do you know of this incident?"

"Very much, High Leader," said the assassin.

"Tell me then. From start to finish. Be as detailed as possible," said Sienna. "Don't kneel. Stand."

The assassin rose from her knees. She stood in silence for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. After a few seconds, she spoke.

"Very well, High Leader. The grunts were assaulting a human woman. I was curious and decided to watch where it would lead. And then, I saw a boy approaching the trio to stop the crime. From what I remember, the boy said something that caused the grunts to attack him," said the assassin. "I thought he was suicidal at first, but…"

She paused.

"What happened then?" asked Sienna.

"I don't quite know, High Leader. One moment, the man looked as though he had killed the boy with a swing of his machete, but the boy did not fall. The next, the boy was standing over the man's corpse with his heart in one of his hands. He then...ate the heart," said the assassin. Sienna couldn't help but notice the slight quiver in her voice.

Sienna was taken aback by the news. A bead of sweat trickled down her nape, but her composure did not falter. Few among the largest Mistrali mafias would even consider such a savage act.

"You did not see him move?" asked Sienna, visibly intrigued.

"Slightly, High Leader. All I saw was a blur of movement," said the assassin. "I could have missed it by blinking."

Sienna had heard of such anecdotes in the past, of elite huntsmen and huntresses moving so quickly that, to the observer, they appeared to be blurs of colour. With that alone, the boy could simply be extraordinarily talented, a once in a generation prodigy who could defeat grown men before they could react.

Cannibalism was a different matter entirely.

"What happened after that?" asked Sienna.

"As I remember, High Leader, the boy chased the remaining two grunts down the alleyway with the machete from the one he killed. He decapitated one of the grunts and proceeded to…slam the largest grunt into the wall with so much force that the man was paralysed," said the assassin, reluctant to go further.

"And then what happened to the last grunt?" asked Sienna.

"High Leader, the boy…I think the boy spat onto the man's face. The man…his face melted away. He was screaming, High Leader, but I couldn't hear his screams. The boy picked him up while he screamed and…tore him in two," said the assassin. There was a quiver in her voice, whereupon Sienna had ascertained the existence of the fear in the assassin's heart.

Sienna slumped back into her seat. So, it was confirmed, then, that the boy was not a boy, but the creature from the pod.

"How old do you think he is?" asked Sienna.

"Around ten or eleven, High Leader Khan. Perhaps thirteen, if you considered his physique."

"And how tall is he?"

"Around five feet, give or take a foot, High Leader," said the assassin.

"Did you notice anything odd about the boy's appearance?" asked Sienna.

"He was quite different, yes. From far away, he wouldn't look very different from regular humans. It is up close, however, that the similarities disappear. I...I don't know how to describe exactly but...he has a very sharp and tall nose. He has black hair that reaches his shoulders. His face is rather ovular and is made up of many…exaggerated features, like a sculpture almost. He wasn't very muscular, only slightly more muscular than the average boy, I think. On the contrary, he was a bit lean, with some well-defined muscles, which is why I found it odd that he was able to defeat the grunts the way he did," she replied, almost reverentially. Despite the stuttering, she wasn't in the least afraid.

Sienna thought long and hard. She clasped her chin in the palm of her hand and stared blankly into a corner of the room, thinking of the assassin's words.

"But there's something about him that feels different. I got a weird feeling the moment I looked at him," said the assassin.

"And what feeling would that be?" asked Sienna.

"It is difficult to explain, High Leader. It was as though I could sense his aura without having to read it," murmured the assassin. "His aura was reaching out towards me. I could feel it."

"Interesting…" said Sienna. "How did you obtain this information?"

"I was looking out at the city atop a building, High Leader while on a scouting mission. I happened to see the scene unfold," revealed the assassin.

Sienna was silent briefly.

"Is there anything else you wish to say?"

"No, High Leader," said the assassin.

"Very well. You are dismissed," said Sienna. She watched the woman depart, a dark silhouette that seemed to merge with a puddle of shadows. The doors opened slightly with a faint creak, allowing slivers to light to hollow out the darkness and return the carmine splendour of the great hall.

Then the monoliths closed resoundingly in one swift motion, and Sienna Khan was alone yet again in the silence with statues for guards.

* * *

**The Boy Who Would Be King**

**0857 hours, 6th Axial Rotation of Joo'Lie, Valean Time**

**_#2-01 Azalea Condominium, Western Sector, Vale_ **

The boy entered the bathroom, undressing after shutting the wooden door behind him. His gaze fell upon the area he had remembered in photographic clarity. A faint dark bulge, a dot of keloid tissue — nothing more. He pulled back his lank, black hair and saw his face. It was a pallid face, a solemn countenance of hard angles and Olympian features. Set into the canvas of marble were two brilliant opals that sparkled starkly, juxtaposed against the pitch darkness of the tiny room.

"You forgot to switch the lights on!" came a voice from outside. It was accompanied by a series of firm knocks across the painted surface of the cheap plank. "Or do you prefer it dark in there?"

"The latter," mumbled the boy, but the voice exited loud and clear. He heard Cynthia's footstep recede into the living room as he paced around the insides of the bathroom. The floor was hard ceramic, unlike the wood of Cynthia's bedroom, and the shower was simple and easy to operate. He hung the towel he received from her onto a steel railing to the left of the cubicle.

The boy dropped his bloodstained clothes into the laundry basket. They would have to be disposed of as soon as possible, clothes and basket. His footprints could be found in the slippers Cynthia had offered him. Those would have to go as well, and it was a good thing that they were disposable slippers.

He stepped into the shower cubicle and turned the tap. Freezing water poured over him from above, but no response, not even the slightest of shivers, could be elicited. The boy washed himself clean, watching the dried blood dissolve and drain off his skin, restoring its former lustre and pallor.

He did not use the shampoo nor the soap; they had a distinct fragrance that he could not quite identify, and the boy figured that the scent could easily be used to tie himself to Cynthia.

All it took was for a clever detective to catch a whiff of the smell of his hair and link it back to the soap that Cynthia had in her bathroom.

Indeed, it was a truly unique scent.

He was not foolish enough to let something as silly as his scent get her in trouble.

But the stench of blood remained. It was, perhaps, imperceptible to the lesser olfactory faculties of mankind, but the same could not be said for the Faunus.

He knew many things about them from the catalogue of all recorded Faunus species included in the history book he'd read at the library. He knew the extent of their strength and senses.

He found it odd that knowledge of the Faunus hadn't been implanted in him, unlike the empirical truths of nature, the laws of the physical world, the truths of substances and their particulate composition, the axioms and formulae of mathematics, and human language.

Languages unused in this strange world.

The moment he'd laid eyes on the human settlement was the moment he knew there were others like him in this world. But knowledge of the Faunus had to be learned. Knowledge of their existence shocked him to the core and their discovery had repulsed him beyond comparison, and yet, they resembled the humans so very much in mannerisms, emotions, and culture.

Indeed, it seemed as though he had never been created for this world. He was so very different from the people here. They were mere phantasms of his likeness, flawed copies, each a mixture of unguided evolution. He perceived the world in all its interconnectedness, those myriad laws and truths.

The boy carefully cleaned his nails, the raptorial talons that had grown quickly from meagre lengths. They were useful weapons, cleaving through skin and muscle without chipping. He needed to get a weapon soon. Preferably one that could be easily contained, like a foldable knife or a machete. A sword could also be useful, but size was a concerning factor. He stepped out of the shower, unclothed, watching the white floor mat soaking up the water in concentric wetness. He wrapped the towel around himself, drying his skin and damp black hair.

The curtains were drawn, and the room was lit only by the fluorescent tubing that striped the ceiling. He was doused in a bucket of freezing air from the air conditioner attached to a far corner of the ceiling. Cynthia sat on a chair in a distant corner of her bedroom, and a look of surprise appeared in her eyes as she caught sight of him. He looked angelic, now that he was cleansed of the filthy blood and grime and dirt he'd accumulated since his bombastic arrival.

"I need some clothes."

Cynthia reminded herself, "Oh right, Clothes."

She hurried to a wardrobe to the left of the boy. It was nearly empty, containing a few pairs of monochromatic outfits. Pants, long-sleeved shirts, and some skirts. Nothing expensive and flashy, but sufficient to her purposes.

"There's no underwear, at least, not for boys," giggled Cynthia. "You don't have to wear them if you don't want to."

"Your clothes will be too small for me in less than a month," said the boy softly as he changed into a pair of baggy black pants and a green flannel shirt that Cynthia had given him.

"A month?"

"A month," affirmed the boy. "Assuming they're tailored roughly to fit your proportions."

"How do you know that?"

How else could he know? The boy was somewhat tired of explaining things to her. He stared at her silently, and for a moment Cynthia felt as though she had said something wrong.

"I know because I've monitored my growth ever since I arrived in the kingdom. I grew an inch in three days, which makes an average of roughly zero point eight hundred and forty-six centimetres per day. If we assume a linear increase in height, I would be roughly twenty-five point four centimetres, or ten inches taller than I am now," said the boy.

"Uh-huh," said Cynthia. "But it wouldn't be linear growth, would it?"

"I was about to say that."

"So, you can't predict exponential growth?" asked Cynthia.

"No, at least not with the amount of data I have at the moment to create the function that models exponential growth in two dimensions."

"Well, you'd need at least a graphing calculator for that."

The boy did not reply. He tried on a shirt that fit loosely over him. He wondered if, owing to their natural endowment, the Faunus could sense her scent upon it. He certainly could. It was a bit loose on the sleeves, but the fabric was warm and thick. He tried on a pair of long, black pants. The fabric was strange, but comfortable on his skin, and the clothing was snug around his waist and the boy felt a wave of soft, loose hems sweeping generously over his feet.

"You were going to the cinema?" asked the boy, looking at Cynthia as he began to put on a pair of socks.

"Yeah, I was," she replied.

"Which one?"

"Goldbridge Cinema, near the Vale River," said Cynthia. The boy had heard of the location in the past while eavesdropping as a shadow amongst men in the first days following his arrival. It was one of the largest and most popular cinemas in the Western Sector.

"I see. You should take a shower," said the boy. A bookshelf stood right beside the wardrobe, and the boy eyed its titles curiously.

"I figured that you'd want to read something," said Cynthia. "So, do you want to tell me how you see the future?"

The boy peered at her curiously. "And why would you want to know that?"

There was a pause of a few seconds. Cynthia rubbed her hands, shifting uncomfortably under the boy's scrutinizing gaze.

"W-Well, since we have nothing to do…"

"I saw a detective, Cynthia. I do not know his name. I have no need to. He will be at your doorstep in an hour's time. He will ring your doorbell three times, and you will have no choice but to let him in. You cannot remain silent within your apartment and hope that he believes you are away, for he knows from the surveillance footage taken in the lift lobby that you have entered it. You cannot reject him, for that will give credence to his suspicions. You can only let him in."

The boy paused, noting the expression on Cynthia's face.

"After you let him in, he will ask you one question. He will question you on your failure to call the police. And then he will ask you some more questions," he finished.

"Why only one question?"

"That is what he will ask. But what he may ask afterwards is contingent on your answer to the question he asks first," said the boy.

"I…see," said Cynthia. "But that still doesn't answer how you see the future."

There was a look of surprise in the boy's once-stony face.

"I did. Is it not obvious? You ask me how I see the future. I gave you a reply detailing what I believe to be the nature of foresight. I see actions that will be done, but not the causal happenings that transpire before they do. I do not see how these actions came to be. They are timeless actions — actions with no apparent causal relationship with our universe. There are only outcomes, Cynthia. And yet, they always seem to pass," explained the boy. Cynthia doubted ever seeing it, but a look of pained sadness had flashed across his face in the time it took for her to blink.

"B-But have you ever tried preventing them from happening? If they're bad, of course," asked Cynthia.

"I am trying. I have engineered everything, from the speed at which we ran in that alley, to the rate at which I felled those fiends, and to the inflexion of my voice. I have taken into consideration dozens of variables, all to prevent a single future from transpiring," muttered the boy, a melancholic frown creasing his brow.

The conversation had certainly taken a graver turn by now.

"What did you see?" asked Cynthia, but she thought she knew the answer.

The boy hesitated for a moment.

"I saw you die," he said. "Bloodied and beaten, in a room. Tortured to death. I don't know their means of capturing you, but these visions have made it clear that someone is after me."

Cynthia opened her mouth to speak, but the boy cut her off.

"I have seen the fates of a few individuals. You, a huntsman I encountered, and a girl I conversed with some days ago," said the boy, his voice hushed with secrecy.

"And your own?" asked Cynthia, her voice quivering with emotion.

"That eludes me yet," said the boy.

"And have your…other visions come to pass?" asked Cynthia.

"All of them, yes," said the boy.

"Including what happened to me in that alley?"

"No," said the boy. "I did not foresee that."

"But you can see the future, can't you?"

The boy stared at her for a moment, his gaze melancholic and soulfully somber.

"I can."

"Then why couldn't you foresee what happened to me in that alley?"

The boy made a displeased sound. "I'm not omniscient."

The boy's stare drifted off into the untrodden parts of her room.

"And what about the near future?"

"It depends much on the situation at hand. I can see my opponent's next move, either by pure intuition or unsolicited foresight. The truth is always laid bare. I always know where the next strike i—"

Cynthia's hand flew through the air, almost too fast for the eye to see. The boy caught the blow with laughable ease and obscene gentleness, clenching his bony white fingers around her wrist. He did not flinch, let alone duck from the blow.

"Ow, ow! Okay, I get it! Point made!" squealed Cynthia as the boy loosened his grip.

"In this case, I could have either relied on my natural reactions, seen your movements before they had unfolded or read the millisecond lasting hints of muscle tension in your arm," remarked the boy. "There may be huntsmen who are able to land a hit on me, though I have not encountered them yet. In other words, I'm open to the possibility that there are huntsmen out there who are either on par with or greater than me in terms of speed. And if I cannot foresee their actions, then I would be in trouble."

He frowned.

"You react oddly to being informed of your imminent death."

"Well, everyone dies in the end, right?" she asked, rhetorically.

"You won't like the way they'll kill you," said the boy, shaking his head.

There was a long pause.

"You're scared that your visions will all be true. I believe that your visions are not fixed," said Cynthia. "You feel the same way too, don't you?"

"Why do you believe so?"

"You have implicitly proven so," said Cynthia. "You doubt your visions. That is why you try to deny them."

Something stirred in the boy's stony visage. A faint chuckle left his lips, much to Cynthia's alarm.

"Well, how sure are you that your visions will always come true, no matter the circumstances?" she asked.

The boy was silent for a moment. He truly didn't know. The truth of the matter was, that he had only begun to care about them when he encountered Cynthia, back in that alleyway, or rather, in a place two weeks from now. He saw her dead in two weeks. The monumental efforts he had invested in preventing the dreadful outcome, and now it could have all gone to waste.

"I don't know, Cynthia," said the boy. "I'm scared. I'm scared of the fickleness of the future. In a way, seeing an event before it unfolds provides me with a sense of solace."

"So you're believing in it...without analyzing it from a logical standpoint?"

"You could say so," said the boy. "I have no idea what to do."

"Can I ask you a question?" asked Cynthia.

"What?"

"Why did you choose to save me?" she asked.

"Out of the goodness of my heart, I saved you. To put it bluntly, I slaughtered them because I felt that it was the right thing to do. I could have easily incapacitated them, but I killed them," said the boy.

"So you see, your creator programmed within you your humanity, along with a very strict moral code, even though you had no reason to possess such things," said Cynthia. "What for?"

"My creator…" The boy drifted off.

"What is he planning?"

"What?" asked Cynthia.

"Every night, I awake in cold sweat after a series of terrible nightmares. I see myself drenched in the blood of a million men. Always wearing that same, hideous suit of armour. And that voice that hammers against my head, calling for justice and conquest, justice and conquest. I see myself at the helm of a hundred ships, with the lives of a hundred thousand demigods at my command. I see myself drenched in the blood of sinners, and my insatiable lust for the blood of criminals grows," said the boy.

"Every night since my arrival has been the same. This pain, this agony, this terror...Why do I exist? Just to suffer?"

The boy's voice was the wispy rasp of a knife scraping against bone. "But I believe that my creator, that fountain of Gold, that being of Light, has designed these traits within me for…reasons. My creator has expended much effort in the process of my creation and design. I was sent here with a purpose to execute. How could it be possible that he wishes me to suffer? Perhaps he made me to suffer. Perhaps my suffering is the price which I have to pay for the strength I possess."

"This creator of yours. A 'being of Light', you say?" asked Cynthia.

"That's the figure who appears in nearly all of my dreams. A giant wreathed in golden light. I would always feel as though I've seen him before, somewhere. I would always feel some form of attachment to it, as though it were a parental figure. When I first saw it, I knew at first glance that such a being could only be my creator," said the boy.

"This situation is getting stranger by the moment. It almost seems magical," said Cynthia.

"Magical?" asked the boy.

"Yeah, you don't know what magic is?"

"No. What is it?"

"Well, there isn't a catch-all definition, but I would define it as 'the ability to control supernatural forces'," explained Cynthia. "It's usually seen in literature, cartoons, and movies."

"Would Semblances and Aura be considered magic?" asked the boy.

"Technically, yes, since they allow huntsmen to perform at superhuman levels while violating the known laws of physics in the process. For example, the fastest recorded running speed of an unaided human is around fifteen meters per second, while huntsmen can move at ten times that while their aura is up," explained Cynthia. "Which is why I'm so interested in you. You've demonstrated the ability to move at speeds that would render you invisible to the human eye, the strength to maim a human with the utmost ease, the ability to communicate telepathically, and the ability to see the future. Although you possess immense intrinsic strength, that wouldn't explain the last two. I suspect you're either using a semblance or some form of magic."

"Anyways, I can't tell if you have an aura or not as I've not unlocked mine," said Cynthia.

"I can assure you that I don't have an aura, or whatever it is that you think you're talking about," said the boy.

"No, that's impossible. All living creatures have an aura. The Grimm don't, because they are soulless in the first place and therefore there is nothing that can manifest as Aura," said Cynthia.

"All living creatures on Remnant, that is," said the boy. "And what's this about souls? What utter nonsense."

"Ugh, why do you have to be so obstinate? Souls do exist!" chided Cynthia, shaking her head. "Oh well, I don't know, maybe this 'creator' of yours made a mistake. Or maybe there were unintended consequences stemming from the inclusion of several features…specifically, your gift of foresight. Factors your creator could not have controlled," said Cynthia. "But surely...for a being possessing the intellect to create one such as you...I find it rather difficult to believe that he could not have discovered a solution to this problem."

A long pause.

"Even so, did my creator make me...knowing that I would suffer from these visions and nightmares?"

"It's also possible that they created you not knowing that you would be afflicted with such an ailment. If they created you knowing full well that you would go on to develop what you just described...then I don't know what to say. Perhaps it was a compromise," said Cynthia. She rubbed her temples, exhausted. "Like what you said: it would be impossible to keep you from suffering and endow you with the strength you have now simultaneously. Anyways, do you really have no memories of your life before you came here?"

"I do remember something...I think it was...a light," said the boy.

"Light?"

"Why would that be helpful information? You wouldn't know what to make of it anyways. All I saw was white, blinding light. But that's really all there is," said the boy. "That's all I can remember."

"Huh. That's strange," said Cynthia. "Honestly, do you have any idea why you were sent here?"

"A purpose envisioned by my creator?" said the boy. "Not in the slightest."

"Oh well. I'm all out of ideas. I guess I should go shower now," said Cynthia.

The boy did not reply. He stared at the ground, unmoving, like a statue of antique marble.

"I'm still curious as to where you read the Law of Vale," Cynthia muttered the afterthought as she rose from her chair and wiped it down with a sheet of wet tissue paper.

The boy was silent briefly and gave an answer, "A Quick Guide to Valean Law: Your Rights and Responsibilities, Second Edition, by Castor Watts, J.D. Page thirty-one," he recalled. A smile creased his cheeks. It was a rare sight for Cynthia. "A guide to Valean Law. Written by an Atlesian…"

Cynthia sighed. "Oh, come on, you don't have to flaunt your memory every time you explain something," She rolled her eyes as she approached the bathroom, back faced to him, as the eyes of the boy followed her out of the room.

"I was just being informative," he murmured, as Cynthia stepped within and shut the door behind her. He heard the sound of heavy, sweat-stained clothes dropping onto the floor, and the sound of feet padding — padding across smooth ceramic tiles. He could hear everything, from the slightest creak in the summer worn wood, to the silent hum of the air-conditioning, and to the halcyon beating of Cynthia's heart from beyond the bathroom door of warm lacquered oak.

The boy plucked a heavy tome from the cheap plywood shelf and sat upon Cynthia's chair. Its wooden legs groaned under his immense weight of three men combined, and for a moment the boy feared that it would collapse. A second passed, and two and three and four and five, but the chair held with respectable obstinance.

The boy's attention returned to the hardcover front of the book. Introduction to Computer Science, it read. It was authored by a man named Arthur Watts who had listed a generous serving of accolades and accomplishments next to his name in the introduction. He was a polymath, it seemed, with doctorates in medicine, computer science, and a master's in electrical engineering. One of the more intelligent specimens of the humans in Atlas, it seemed.

Curiously, the boy leafed through the pages, absorbing their contents in the blink of an eye. There was a generous serving of mathematics that, unbeknownst to the boy, went beyond the prescribed level of undergraduate study, especially at the higher levels. The explanations were terse and simultaneously elegant, and the boy noted that some text had been sparsely annotated by Cynthia's sloppy handwriting. Many of the pseudocode exercises appeared to be incomplete. But then again, Cynthia could have worked them out on a separate piece of paper.

They were easy problems — for him, at least — the boy understood that an intuitive grasp of the underlying axioms of the subject was required to solve many of them — not merely the mindless regurgitation of facts and definitions that he'd encountered in the elementary textbook in the Valean library.

Engrossed, the boy leafed through more and more pages, speeding up as he absorbed and understood the concepts instantaneously, much like how he had done with the books in the library. But now he was able to learn unhindered by the threat of discovery, at a pace now limited by the fragility of the textbook's frail, old paper pages.

Before long, the boy had reached the end of the book, having learned a year's worth of material in a little over thirty minutes. The sound of falling water was still loud and clear from within the bathroom, and the boy found it odd that Cynthia showered for such a long time.

Other books sat upon her shelves, old, mass-produced copies of classics written by Mistrali authors centuries dead and several expensive, paperback texts on topics ranging from vector calculus to elementary algebra.

Cynthia was indeed a well-educated individual, and by estimating the ages of these texts the boy deduced that his benefactor had read plenty of these texts in her late adolescence and early adulthood.

Carefully, the boy returned the textbook to its original place amongst the myriad tomes in Cynthia's five-layered bookshelf. It slid in with a protesting hiss as a puff of air was displaced.

The door opened with a rusty groan and Cynthia stepped within the room, dressed in nothing but a plain bathrobe. The boy paid her no mind as she changed into a suit of pyjamas and wiped her cleansed spectacles dry with a sheet of tissue paper.

"Were you reading the book on programming?" she asked, staring at the shelf.

"Yes. I had hoped that you wouldn't notice. It was rather simple if you asked me," replied the boy. Cynthia rolled her eyes.

"Simple, you say? How much of it did you read?"

"I stopped on page ninety-eight."

"And you understood everything?" asked Cynthia, her face flushed with incredulity. "That's like…a fifth of the whole book."

"I think so," said the boy, matter of fact.

Cynthia released a deep breath of air as she sighed, perhaps angrily.

"I don't believe you. I was gone for…" she glanced at the clock.

"Thirty minutes, and you learned a year and a half's worth of computer programming from a textbook written for the brightest Atlesian adults, many of whom have learned multivariable calculus and ordinary differential equations by the time they were in eleventh grade, by the time I came back," said Cynthia, grabbing the textbook from the dusty bookcase. "Exercise thirty-five point one. The average exercise takes a few days to complete. I was never able to solve this one, and neither were most in my cohort able to. If you truly, and I mean truly understood the concepts, you would be able to complete it."

The boy stared at his friend in sombre contemplation for a second or so and got up from the chair, which gave a groan of gratitude at the burden released.

"You received a degree from the most prestigious university in your kingdom," said the boy. "But it's not enough for the job you desire?"

"Well, yeah, the situation's crazy over there. I was rejected from almost every job I applied to," said Cynthia with a rueful chuckle.

"Almost, you said," the boy remarked. "You were offered a job in your field of expertise?"

"Well, yeah, but it didn't pay as much as the ones I wanted, and with the cost of living in Atlas and all, I decided that it wasn't enough. Which is why I took up a higher paying job situated here in Vale," said Cynthia.

"And you never once considered moving to Mantle?"

Cynthia shrugged. "Nope."

"Why not?"

"There's a relatively high crime rate, especially in the poorer areas. There are no poor areas and no violent crime in Atlas," explained Cynthia. "Anyways, the company that first accepted me was located in Atlas, which meant that I had to take a plane there every morning if I wished to stay in Mantle. The plane ride was free, but I didn't want to live in Mantle for the aforementioned reasons."

"No violent crimes," repeated the boy. "Could you elaborate?"

"There is, however, a noticeable frequency of white-collar crimes. Fraud, money laundering, the like."

"I see," said the boy, his chin cupped in solemn contemplation.

"Most of the crime in Mantle is committed by Faunus. Those who are exploited by the SDC and have nowhere to go and stay but in the slums of Mantle. They are forced to work for the SDC to earn money for just the bare essentials like food and water, but the meagre wages they earn are never enough for a proper roof over their heads," explained Cynthia.

"I understand," said the boy. "Where are all the Faunus from?"

"They're born there. Where else?"

"That makes sense. Perhaps if they stopped reproducing, the SDC would be crippled due to a significant lack of workforce. After all, who would want to take a Faunus' job?"

Cynthia laughed nervously. "You're joking, right?"

"No, not at all. I am very serious. Also, it seems to me that the Schnee Dust Company is heavily dependent on cheap Faunus labour, and given the state of technological advancement in Atlas and the size of the company, it seems extremely odd that the SDC has not yet begun relying on robots to extract dust in their mines," explained the boy.

"Ah, now you see, it isn't so simple."

"What do you mean?"

"Mining robots which are commercially available have not yet attained the sophistication inherent in humans and Faunus that makes them so valuable to the SDC. In other words, they lack the dexterity that humans and Faunus possess. See, since pure Dust is an extremely sensitive substance, prone to detonation when even the slightest amounts of force are applied, a high level of dexterity is required to properly handle and extract the crystals. Fine muscle control is important, but the robots with these abilities are quite expensive. Besides, the Schnee Dust Company is very stingy," said Cynthia. "Besides, dust powder often interferes with delicate electronics, and it's no surprise that robots used in coal or iron mines often break down in dust mines because the fine dust powder in the air is able to enter the robot's body."

"I understand," said the boy.

"So, are you going to solve the problem or not?" asked Cynthia, grinning mischievously at him.

"I will. It usually takes a few days, you say?"

"That is what I said," shrugged Cynthia. "Exercise thirty-five point one. I took a few days to solve most of the questions I could. I could never solve this one."

"Very well. Exercise thirty-five point one."

Cynthia placed the book on her study table, right next to a pile of scrap paper. The boy sat on the chair. It grumbled under his immense weight, but the boy paid it no mind. With the pen in his hand, he gently retrieved a single sheet of paper from the container and turned the pages to the exercise Cynthia had told him about.

He knew the answer immediately. It was one of the more challenging problems from the text, but nothing beyond his abilities. His slender fingers gripped Cynthia's pen gently. He had never written before, but the intuition marrow-bound to the nerves in his fingers took control. The pen hovered above the paper for a moment, and then it fell.

"You're not…supposed to do it now," said Cynthia, as her voice rose an octave higher with incredulity. "You mean…you know the answer?"

"Hmm…probably," replied the boy, his hand working furiously as his thoughts were translated to ink. Cynthia gazed over his shoulder. The boy's penmanship was simple, but elegant, similar to her own when she had been a teenager.

"This...this isn't the type of question you solve in high-school exams...these are problems you think about at school, at work, when you're showering, when you're eating...how are you doing this?" asked Cynthia, astonished by the swiftness of his mind. The boy shrugged, and it was the first human movement Cynthia had seen him make in a long time.

"Done," said the boy, fifteen minutes and thirty-four seconds later.

Cynthia snatched the paper from the desk. She flipped furiously to the back of the textbook, where she knew the answers could be found. At last, she rested her eyes upon the crisp, long-untouched page where the answer lay, a solution so profound that she could not imagine herself coming up with it, even in her wildest dreams. Watt's solution was elegant, and many had agreed that it was the only logical solution to the problem. Ever since the textbook's publication ten years ago, there were only a surprisingly little number of students who could solve the problem and understand Watts' solution.

But the boy's solution was better. Although Cynthia couldn't admit it at first, there was something about the boy's solution that transcended Arthur's by an entire order of magnitude. So profound was it that Cynthia was surprised that she understood it in its entirety — though she knew, of course, that she could never replicate such thoughts herself.

A shiver ran down her spine. Until this point, Cynthia had always regarded the boy as human, notwithstanding how preposterous it was to do so. It was only natural to do so, to have her emotions cloud her rationality. The creature in front of her was no human. She had grown close to him in complacency and had forgotten almost entirely of the circumstances of his existence.

Arthur Watts was, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the greatest geniuses of modern history, having designed and coded all of Mantle's security grid entirely on his own. There were a few others who came to mind, who Cynthia believed rivalled his intelligence. There was Pietro Polendina, a famed Atlesian polymath whose ground-breaking work spanned multiple fields, including neuroscience, biomechatronics, and artificial intelligence. Alice Lockwood was another worthy example, a famed inventor of multiple biological weapons suited for use against the creatures of Grimm and a former child prodigy of abnormal giftedness. These were men and women whom Cynthia had suspected were three entire standard deviations above herself, and seven entire standard deviations above the mean of human intelligence.

All were embers against the sun when compared to the alien intelligence of the creature now sitting in front of her. This was simply a different form of cognition altogether, a higher order of thinking that amazed and frightened Cynthia simultaneously in its artificial beauty.

Cynthia was well aware of the many forms of Artificial Intelligence that Atlas had developed in its golden age of technological advancement. Many had been decommissioned in the days after their creation due to the immense energy requirements for their systems, but Cynthia knew well the first-hand accounts that the scientists involved had given of their interactions with the creatures who possessed intellects which, by all accounts, easily surpassed that of the aforementioned human polymaths.

Following the decommission of true Artificial Intelligence, researchers at the AIT had developed non-sentient artificial intelligence, such as the prototype Atleisan Knights —combat-ready androids which utilized a fairly simplistic, military-grade machine-learning-based computer vision software to identify and track targets. There was word of General Ironwood authorizing other combat-related projects amongst the faculty at the AIT, but no official statement had been given by either the General or the Atlas Military.

Systems such as these ran on highly sophisticated hardware and were energetically demanding. Nevertheless, dust remained a viable solution for such requirements. Cynthia was convinced that whatever was contained in the boy's cranium was far more sophisticated than the likes of such hardware. He was a different breed of genius altogether, an inhuman being whose intelligence formed far more parallels with that of full artificial intelligence than that which was typical of Mankind. Though it was possible for Atlesian researchers to design a being whose intellect which far surpassed that of humans, at least in theory, it was wholly impossible for them to design a being whose intellect was comparable to that of the boy and who was able to replicate his thoughts and their sheer originality.

That being said, there were other aspects of the boy that perturbed Cynthia. For starters, he was extraordinarily strong, stronger than his sculpted physique would suggest. But his muscles were of a different quality than that of baseline humanity. Cynthia remembered the last time she had felt his skin, and the muscles of bodybuilders and seasoned huntsmen felt soft in comparison to his.

Cynthia wondered if it was someday possible for Atlas to create organisms similar to the boy. Sure, her country was highly advanced in certain fields, but it was simultaneously lacking in others.

"But it gives a different solution here," said Cynthia, squinting at the boy's solution. "But your solution seems to work, I think, for some odd reason. At least I think it does…by the Gods, this is a novel solution! How did you come up with this?"

The boy shrugged again. "Gods?"

"Well, it's what people say when they're surprised, but that's beside the point. You just solved one of the most challenging problems in the history of course 7.01," said Cynthia. "Do you know the magnitude of what you just did?"

"I solved a problem you deemed unsolvable by your abilities," said the boy, eliciting an outburst of nervous laughter from Cynthia.

"Gods? What are Gods?" The term was alien to his ears and mind and soul. He knew, of course, what the term meant, from the many arguments in favour of their existence that he'd read in the library, but the feeling of alterity and contempt lingered deep within him.

He simply wanted a different perspective.

"Powerful beings. Deities. Many believe in the existence of different versions of these creatures, some do not believe in them at all. Worshipped by hundreds of thousands of people across the continents," said Cynthia.

"Worship?"

"They honour and show reverence towards these beings," explained Cynthia.

"Has anyone seen these beings?" asked the boy doubtfully.

"Well, no experimental evidence exists of their existence. At least, I've never read a study that proves the existence of a deity," said Cynthia.

"Interesting perspective. Oh well, I'm sure that many have turned to non-empirical means such as philosophy and logic to prove the existence of such a deity," said the boy.

"Once, I heard of an argument that an all-perfect being exists out of logical necessity, by virtue of the fact that existing in reality is the greatest possible state of existence. In other words, it states that god's existence is self-evident," said Cynthia. She chuckled. "Probably the most interesting one I've heard so far, but then again there are plenty of good arguments against this. One might even conclusively disprove it."

The boy made a displeased sound. Then, he chuckled for a few seconds.

"What is it?" asked Cynthia. "Have you already found a rebuttal?"

The boy did not reply. He looked at the digital clock that sat upon Cynthia's bedside drawer. It was a simple machine of utilitarian design. The colours grey and black decorated its dusty exterior in planes of mild colour, and upon the smooth metallic face of its back lay printed a disconcerting symbol.

"The alarm clock is from Atlas?" asked the boy.

"Well, yeah, it's what every student gets from the AIT orientation pack. What about it?"

The boy made another displeased sound, startling Cynthia on the inside.

"I see. I was just curious," replied the boy. He moved closer to the clock, picking it up in a chalice's grip of bony white fingers. For something so simple and cheaply manufactured, it sure had plenty of functions. The boy lost interest in the object and placed it back onto the wardrobe.

"We may have to leave the city one day," said the boy. "I do not wish to hurt the police. Their cause is noble, and their intent is reasonable."

"But you still have to do something about them, right?" asked Cynthia. "Besides, you still haven't told me about much of your plans. What do you intend on doing in the days to come, other than dealing with the White Fang?"

The boy stared ahead and thought for some time. The creatures of Grimm had been a plague on this world since time immemorial. By all accounts, for thousands of years, there had been no eyewitness accounts of Grimm reproduction and more importantly, humans had no clue on how these creatures came to be. At least, nobody who found out ever lived to tell the tale.

It was simply impossible that there was a limited supply of these creatures. Mankind and Grimm had fought for thousands of years, and yet there was no shortage of the creatures. They had to spawn from somewhere.

"Do you have any idea where the Grimm are coming from?" asked the boy finally. He had been silent for a whole minute now.

"No idea. Nobody knows. Nobody has seen them reproduce in the wild or in captivity," came the reply. "But they have to be continuously generated, right? There couldn't possibly exist a large enough population for us to kill over the past millennia, right? Otherwise, there would be Grimm everywhere."

"It appears that we are on the same wavelength."

"Yeah, and the size of the population that a lack of reproductive phenomena points towards is truly enormous. Humans and Faunus would have never made it past the stone age if there were that many of them!" she exclaimed. "So, what do you think about the Grimm? Are you planning on killing as many Grimm as you can for the time being?"

"Short term solutions are not enough. I need to know where they are spawned. Upon discovering such a geographic location, or multiple locations, the chance to either severely limit their production or ensuring their extinction shall arise. Cut off a head, and two more shall take its place. Waging an all-out war against the Grimm is an exercise in futility. I shall have to devise a means of defending the humans against the Grimm for the time being until I have ascertained the locations of these hypothetical breeding zones or reproductive sites," explained the boy.

Cynthia nodded in agreement.

"Talk about big ambitions. First, you want to deport all the Faunus to Menagerie, now you want to kill all of the Grimm," remarked Cynthia.

"I do this for the good of the human race," he maintained. "They can wait. I have more pressing issues at hand as of now."

"Such as?"

"Evading capture. Finding allies. Stopping crime. Vale's crime rate is relatively low compared to Kingdoms such as Mistral and Vacuo. The VPD can handle most of the cases here, but Mistral is corrupt to the core. There's a large criminal organization known as the Mistralian Mafia. It is involved in crimes such as kidnapping, murder, assassination, human trafficking, and it also has ties with the White Fang. I would like to destroy this organization."

"Mistral is corrupt to the core, huh...I think that might be an overstatement..." said Cynthia.

"Perhaps it was. Nevertheless, there are many dangerous towns and cities in Mistral. Kuchinashi is one city that immediately comes to mind when one thinks of cities with a high rate of violent crime," said the boy. "I can name several others. But first, we need allies."

"Allies? Hmm, maybe you'll be able to find some 'allies' in the form of hired huntsmen, but as people who would follow you out of actual respect? I don't think you'll find many of those…" remarked Cynthia.

"Why do you think so?"

"There's no denying that they're scared. People want answers, especially after the media's grown silent over the incident. It was a bad decision on the media's part to tell everyone that the creature had human characteristics…" said Cynthia. "If they find out you're killing-"

**"I can kill as many criminals as I want in the public and the media won't do a thing about it,"** said the boy.

"What?" Cynthia was confused.

**"Do you know why? Let's suppose they announce the killings to the public in order to get them to track me down and become their secret police. Of course, everyone loses their minds, and what do you think happens next?"**

"The Grimm invades and kills us all...Don't tell me..."

**"That's right. I'm effectively holding the city hostage. There is no shortage of criminals in the Vale Maximum Security Prison. If I slaughter a thousand murderers and display them in the most gruesome way imaginable to the public, the amount of fear caused would cause the largest Grimm invasion in recorded history. This is what I shall threaten the Council with. The media cannot allow the public to know of my existence, but now that that's been done, everyone in the city is on edge, and with that brings the threat of Grimm. So the most logical option for them would be to convince the public that I no longer exist, that they've killed me - so that everyone can sleep well at night. And that's exactly what I'll demand of them, first by sending a little _gift_ to the VPD Headquarters. And then our silent little war will begin. They will comply with every single one of my demands, or else I unleash hell upon this city."**

"But that means that you'll need a steady supply of inmates. And not just any inmates - the worst kind of inmates. How are you going to get those?" asked Cynthia. "If you attempt to kidnap them from the prisons, then they'll just begin to guard the prison so that you can't get any."

**"Ah, but you're only seeing one facet of my plan. There is another source of criminals. The streets, of course. Naturally, the police would want to rapidly diminish the supply of 'candidates', so to speak, so what do you think they'll do to achieve that?"**

Cynthia stared at the boy, utterly astonished. Her eyes were wide with shock, and she slumped back into her chair.

"They'll start implementing harsher laws and penalties. But that's exactly what you want! All according to plan..."

**"That's right."**

"Y-Y-You're...a genius," said Cynthia.

The boy ignored her praise.

"Now, you said you had a brother in Atlas. When was the last time you spoke with him?" asked the boy.

"T-Two days ago. Why?"

The boy did not reply. "What job does he hold?"

"He's Atlas Military personnel," said Cynthia.

"I see," said the boy, letting out a sigh. "That complicates things quite a bit. What about his rank?"

"He's a Specialist," said Cynthia.

"Well, that certainly complicates things even further. Do you know what he's been up to lately?"

"I don't know. He's been saying the usual stuff."

"Such as?"

"Well, as far as I can remember, he updated me on what he's been eating, how's life, that kind of stuff. But for the past three, four days he hasn't been answering my calls. Ever since…you came," said Cynthia.

"Well, that is to be expected. The Atlas Military should be in quite a hassle after the incident," said the boy.

"True," replied Cynthia.

"Well, what else do you know about your brother?"

Cynthia stared at the wall ahead as she sat down onto her messy bed.

"I was never very close to him emotionally. After our parents died, we simply…drifted apart. We never really hung around each other at school, and at home, we simply treated each other as…roommates," said Cynthia. "He found a friend, and I found my group of friends. Gradually, we grew distant, and now we talk only once in a while."

"I see. Which school did you go to?"

"Public School 1.1," said Cynthia. "Nine years of accelerated studies, beginning at the age of seven. A feeder school for the AIT."

"This friend of his, who are they?" asked the boy.

"A girl. A biologist," recalled Cynthia.

"Is she a powerful person?"

"Well, she is a renowned researcher with access to plenty of resources, if that's within the scope of such an abstract concept as power. She's a very odd person."

"How famous is she as a researcher?" asked the boy. "And what do you mean 'odd'?"

"She was the winner of the last Golden Sceptre in 78 AGW, which is very impressive, considering her age," said Cynthia. "She was the twelfth youngest in history. She has made great contributions to the field of applied Grimm physiology, so the Atlas Council has spoiled her in terms of grants, equipment, and funding."

"How many resources are the best ones granted by the government?"

"Well, it depends very much on whether or not they are working for the military, as well as the subject of their research. There are less than fifty researchers of similar productivity and value to the Atlesian government, which is why they are given so much by the government. Alice herself has her own ship, a state-of-the-art laboratory that spans three stories, and a team of huntsmen and soldiers of her own choosing to escort her wherever she goes. My brother is on that team. Augustus hasn't told me much, but the last figure he gave of Alice's salary is around a hundred thousand lien a year, but the funding she receives is far in excess of that. Which is to be expected, given her sheer research output and the number of highly dangerous missions she embarks on every month," explained Cynthia. "In general, researchers who work on militarized applications of their field of study are paid far more than their non-military counterparts."

"That is a lot of money and a lot of resources," remarked the boy.

"Well, in Atlas you could earn a similar salary if you have a business degree and 5 years of experience. And most senior pen pushers in large companies earn a few times that, so while it's still a very good salary coupled with what is probably one of the most prestigious jobs on the planet, it isn't extremely impressive if you're just comparing salaries," explained Cynthia.

What are these missions that you speak of?"

"Alice is a polymath, like many of the other eminent Atlesian researchers you'll become aware of in the days to come, but her favourite subject is Applied Grimm Physiology. Every month she embarks on several missions outside the kingdom to uncharted territories in the areas between the kingdoms. She studies the Grimm in the field and orders her team of soldiers to capture any specimens of interest to her and, after administering a powerful cutting-edge sedative designed to put the creatures to sleep for more than a day, imprisons them on her airship and brings them back to her lab in the AIT to perform experiments on them," explained Cynthia, scratching her head.

"That sounds exciting," said the boy.

"Look, I know that you may come into conflict with Atlesian Government in the future, but you should be warned that Alice is just one of the dozens of the intellectual powerhouses who work for Atlas. James Ironwood is considered to be one of the greatest Atlesian Generals in the nation's history, and his subordinates are no fools either. So, if you are ever engaged in a battle of wits with them, it wouldn't be wise to underestimate them," warned Cynthia.

"I'm well aware of that, though some information would be useful. Do you know much about the Atlesian Government? Their military, technology, population, and demographics?" asked the boy. "All the information I have about Atlas was obtained from an old history book, which was published a long time ago, back in 65 AGW. It's currently 80 AGW, which means that the information in the history book is 15 years late. Do you have a history book or something similar to that?"

Cynthia thought for a second, preparing her words. "Well, I don't know much about the Atlesian Government, except that it consists of a five-seated council, of which the seats are competed for every four years in an electoral process. Major decisions are made by the council after a majority vote. The military consists of an air force, infantry, and navy, and it's headquartered at the Atlas Academy. But I think you've already learned this."

"I have. I need specifics, which were included in the book but are probably outdated by now," said the boy.

Cynthia shuffled over to her shelf. She paused in front of it, trying to remember where she had placed it last. There were indeed many books in the bookcase, which consisted of eight large storeys containing more than a couple dozen books per row. It resembled an Atlesian office skyscraper, but the window-frames were too large and there was no entrance.

"So much I've read, so much I've forgotten. Ah, here it is," mumbled Cynthia. The boy heard her loud and clear. " _The Updated History of Remnant_. At least, that's what they call it in every new iteration."

She handed the book over to him. It was heavy, with over a thousand pages in total, and it was bound in a glossy material that had the feel of plastic and paper. It was published a year ago. The boy flipped it open and noticed that Cynthia had bookmarked it on page 779, under the chapter entitled 'Modern History – Causes of the Great War'. He closed the book, leaving the crimson ribbon had been placed.

"This will be useful. Can I borrow it?" asked the boy. "It appears to be an introductory text to the History of Remnant. This will be interesting."

"Do you really have to ask?"

"I suppose not," he replied. "Well, I'll be taking a look at your bookshelf, if you don't mind."

"Take what you need, just don't leave it here when the cops come knocking," said Cynthia.

"Of course," said the boy, getting up. He scanned the rows in an instant and turned to Cynthia. "These will be useful. Texts on engineering, programming, physics, and mathematics."

"Why would you need them?"

"I need to design my own weapons and armour. I don't enjoy the benefits of an aura, unlike huntsmen and huntresses, which makes me vulnerable to damage. With the knowledge contained within these books I will be able to design weapons of war that this world has never seen before," said the boy.

"But your ideas, profound as they may be, will forever be limited to the drawing board if you cannot acquire the resources to bring them to life," remarked Cynthia.

"That is true. That is why I must ask someone to create them for me," said the boy. "Do you happen to know how to forge a sword?"

"No, not really. I was taught the basics in the past, but I never really wanted to become a huntress, so I never took any of the additional weapons design and forging classes. And even if I knew how to forge a sword, I don't have the equipment to do so," said Cynthia. "But…I do own a sword."

The boy stiffened in excitement. "Where is it?"

"I must've left it in my wardrobe. Hold on…"

Cynthia closed the gap between herself and the wooden wardrobe. After opening it, she crouched to open another narrow, nondescript drawer.

"Ah, here it is," she said, her gaze settling on a dusty bag that measured a few feet long.

The boy peered curiously over her shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?"

"Well, we weren't yet on the topic of weapons, were we?" said Cynthia as she patted the dust off the black bag, feeling the hard scabbard of the weapon.

Carefully, she unzipped the bag and removed a long, unused sabre.

"It's ornamental, but it's still sharp as heck," said Cynthia, presenting it to the boy, who unsheathed the blade as he began to stand.

In an unconscious display of prodigious skill, the boy made a fluid flourish that startled Cynthia.

"Hey, watch it! You nearly cut my head off!"

"I don't think you were in any danger. This is much better than the machete those animals left me. How did you obtain this?" asked the boy.

"It was a gift from my brother. It's a classic Atlesian Sabre that he bought several years ago from a forge somewhere in Mantle," said Cynthia. "By the way, how did you do that? I've never seen anyone spin a blade with such skill before, not even when I visited Atlas Academy."

"I don't know. I just did it out of instinct," said the boy.

"You mean you were biologically engineered to use a sword," said Cynthia.

"I will take that as a compliment," said the boy, sheathing the blade. "Aren't there rental forges in those department stores for weapons? As you brought up, I need a place where I can bring my designs to life."

"Now that you say so, I have a friend who owns a small forge in the Western Sector, a twenty-minute walk from here," suggested Cynthia. "Maybe he could be of some help to you."

The boy was silent for a moment.

"That would be one more person involved in this covert enterprise. I'd like to keep this operation small for the time being, with a gradual build-up of manpower and a militia. However, since such a facility is crucial to my plans, it is important that we associate ourselves with him," said the boy slowly. "Who is this man?"

"His name is Quintus Slate. He's an ex-huntsman from Beacon Academy. Now he forges weapons for customers on a commission by commission basis," explained Cynthia. "He obtains his metals from an Atlesian mining company that both mines and manufactures metal bars and rods for blacksmiths and weapon designers such as him."

"Is he in regular contact with his teammates from Beacon? I heard that the students from Beacon are grouped into teams of four which will remain together for the rest of their time at the academy," remarked the boy.

"No. Why?"

They don't even come to visit?"

"No, they parted a few years after graduation, a few years ago. He's never heard from them ever since," explained Cynthia. "Maybe they died during a mission. He never talks about them."

"And what makes you think he'll be willing to join us?"

"Join us? Who said anything about joining us?" asked Cynthia.

"I hope I don't have to explain this to you. Every stakeholder involved in this operation has the potential of betraying us, which is why we cannot allow them to walk freely."

"Right, fine," acknowledged Cynthia. "Maybe he'll be willing to join us."

"What if he isn't?"

"He is, and he will," said Cynthia.

"How do you know this man?" asked the boy.

"I met him online once, on a forum site about weapon design and engineering, after I made a technical query. I was a weapons engineer once, in my undergraduate days, but more on the programming side of things. I used to be involved in an interdisciplinary research project for the Atlas Military, as all AIT undergraduates are. I worked with people from different departments on designing a turret gun for the military," recalled Cynthia. "It turned out that he was rather competent at weapons design as well, and since we both shared an interest in weapons, we became friends."

"I see. So how long have you known this man?" asked the boy.

"About four years."

"Does he have a family?" asked the boy.

"No. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"The answer depends on how cynical you are," said the boy.

The two chuckled in unison.

"You have a dark sense of humour," remarked Cynthia. "So, you said that a member of the police would be coming. Where is he now?"

"It seems like there will be more than one."

The doorbell rang a single, unmistakable tune that pierced the stark stillness of the apartment's atmosphere.

"I will meet you in the morning, at sunrise. Until then, Good-"

He stopped mid-sentence – ears perked. Without a second to pause, smoke engulfed the boy's form, and the column of black smoke darted out of Cynthia's room immediately, drowning out every light in the apartment in its wake.

The main door caved in and fire roared through a thousand and seventy-eight splinters of broken wood.

Cynthia screamed at the deafening explosion in the other room. Not a second passed before light filled the room – a burning globe of artificial light that drowned immediately in the torrents of darkness that flooded the room.

Arms far stronger than they appeared upturned Cynthia from her feet and caught her in a vice-like embrace. The boy picked her up and shoved her under her bed where she could not be seen.

\+ Don't come out until I tell you to! +

Through the wreckage of the blasted door, four figures sprung into the room in perfect formation.

Huntsmen and huntresses. The boy recognized what they were, neither from the forms of their livery nor their exotic weapons, but by the quality of their souls. Their souls were far stronger than that of the average human or Faunus, even exceeding ordinary huntsmen by a wide margin. Unlocked auras, without a doubt.

They were dangerous.

Each of the four assassins wore identical, black jumpsuits with masks, and the boy could tell from the outlines of their bodies that there were two huntresses and two huntsmen.

He spied them from the narrow doorway that led into Cynthia's bedroom as they panned out across the living room, in the shadow behind the door, unmoving and deathly silent with the sabre grasped masterfully with bone-white fingers.

They had sensed him. Yes, they knew that he was somewhere within the room. They could feel his fearsome presence. The grandness of his being. The feebleness spreading in their joints. Yet, they had no clue where he was. As the boy watched them in the dark, it became clear to him that they had some form of night vision, probably using the electronic goggles that they wore on their head, given how they managed to navigate the living room without bumping into anything. It was obvious that none of them was Faunus.

Their weapons were simple and practical, unlike many of the outlandish ones the boy had seen at the weapons store. Most of them carried pistols and swords of a standardized appearance, though not the same size, which felt strange to the boy, who had grown accustomed to the highly personalized weapons of the huntsmen and their teams.

Someone had hired them, obviously. The boy recognized the deftness in their movements and the skill with which they handled their guns and knew at once that they would be a far greater foe than the untrained thugs he'd killed in the alley.

The back of the assassin disappeared behind the door to Cynthia's room. This was his chance. He shot out without warning and without a sound, emerging from a pool of shadows. With his sabre in hand, he swivelled fluidly around the side of the wooden door to Cynthia's bedroom with the grace of a Mistrali dancer.

The boy struck out, faster than the eye could see, with the hard edge of his hand in a knife-handed blow to the assassin's neck. It would have been a mortal injury if not for her passive activation of aura, and the assassin howled in pain and alarm as a bright green field fizzled around her body.

Her head smashed into the wooden door beside her, and a wave of pain stabbed her body. She swivelled around in defence and began firing. He swerved, but he was not quick enough.

The supersonic rounds pierced deep into the boy's skin, and a wave of stabbing pain engulfed his torso. The flow of blood stemmed almost immediately, and the bullets shot out through his back.

The huntress lashed out at the boy's chest with a wicked stiletto blade, and it pierced straight to his armoured ribcage, then stopped immediately. The pain was excruciating, but the boy was unfazed but suddenly drowsy.

The huntress ripped the envenomed blade from the boy's chest. Blood pulsed from the horrendous injury and the boy caught the steel blade as it left and snapped it in two with his thumb.

Her eyes widened at the display of immense strength, and by this point, the huntress' teammates were well aware of her distress, and the boy knew he had to act fast.

She was already turning, her aura regenerating, but he attacked first with his right hand, smashing it into her face in a controlled release of the destructive energy pent up within him.

The woman's emerald auric field shattered instantly. She screamed.

The boy grabbed a fistful of the woman's hair, and without pause, plunged his sabre sideways in a great, forceful motion into the huntress' unprotected back, dragging her body against the blade. He heard the breaking of a thick, flexible bone, and then the woman's body went limp. Or at least, most of it.

It had all happened in the blink of an eye, and all her teammates saw were the three feet of bloodstained steel that had suddenly protruded from her chest. The woman's jaw was slack in shock at the impact, and tics erupted over her face as the boy held her close.

There was something erotic about the nightmarish scene, as the boy pulled on the woman's raven-black hair and spasms shook her arched back, and as the blade straddled her broken spine, that frightful tableau was invincible.

The boy ripped the blade from her half-dead torso, and in that instant, she fell without a sound, dead within seconds and bleeding as fast as she could through the wound of a severed backbone.

Her last expression had been one of undignified surprise. The pungent smell of urine filled the room as the huntress' bowels voided uncontrollably, and a dark spot was spreading between the legs of her corpse.

Trained huntsmen and assassins they were, and yet none could have prepared them for the quick death of their friend.

They stared, dumbfoundedly, at the corpse of the woman they had trained for years with. Everything had happened so quickly, and she had died so easily. It was as though she had gone down without a struggle.

Such a manner of death was almost unheard of in the world of huntsmen and huntresses, where the outcome of total aura depletion required a long and arduous battle.

The sabre flourished, raining blood onto the walls.

It was then that they charged.

One raised his pistol – a wicked amalgamation of a sleek steel chassis that supported a streamlined body and a cylindrical suppressor – and fired.

A salvo of staccato shots pierced the stillness of the standoff. The rest charged in unison, leaving cracks in the flooring as they pushed off, accelerating from zero to more than fifty kilometres an hour in a heartbeat.

The boy exploded into action.

Silver flashed like lightning as the sabre flashed through the air, swatting away the bullet seeking his head, but ten thousand volts of electricity shot up his arm, and the stench of burning blood filled the air as it cooked off the warm blade.

His footwork staggered, and for a fraction of a second, his focus on the rhythm of the battle disappeared, replaced by a murderous spike of pain that radiated across his upper torso.

The remaining bullets broke apart in sparks of metal the boy as he swatted them away in the nick of time, each sending a jolt of electricity up his spine.

_Lightning-dust_ , the boy thought. _Stun. Paralyze. Capture._

It was then that it dawned on him – that these huntsmen and huntresses were not here to kill him – they were here to capture him. Of the two possibilities, this was more likely. Perhaps that's why the woman's blade was poisoned - it was meant to paralyze him, not to kill. Did that mean that their employer knew of his regenerative abilities?

The delay was all it took for the huntsman to get within an arm's length of himself.

He caught the boy's nose with a powerful right hook, breaking it with a wet crack.

The gush of blood clotted in an instant, and the boy shrugged off the pain of the injury.

Reason fled his mind as anger replaced his inhibition. Every instinct screamed at the boy to kill, kill, kill the huntsman whose fist now flew slowly towards the boy as his posthuman reflexes brought him to a new height.

The boy unleashed the murderous strength that he had so far suppressed in a single, destructive step, punching his aggressor so hard and with such speed that the man's auric field shattered instantly.

But that was not all.

Bones went to dust in an instant, and he flew into the plaster wall behind him, smashing through the intermediary layer of plywood beneath and crashing through the final layer of bricks and mortar.

He fell onto the ground of the concrete alleyway beyond the wall, every bone in his body either cracked or shattered, and his flesh pulverized.

Another fired his weapon thrice at the boy. The boy watched as the bullets exploded out of the matte-black suppressor in slow motion, even as they moved so quickly to the huntsman that they did not seem to move through the opposing air.

An arc of plasma danced from the shiny silver casing against the supersonic wind. The boy was already moving, turning, sliding across the smooth wooden floor of Cynthia's apartment, sliding towards the man.

The huntsman abandoned his gun and drew his sword. The future poured in like a maddening torrent into the boy's visual cortex, and everything slowed down as the boy accelerated.

The man bolted forward, his movements nimble and fast. He swung the sword sidelong at the boy, who parried the blow with an upward swipe of his machete.

Immediately, the huntsman smashed his fist into the boy's face, cracking his cheekbones. But that was all he could do.

Unfazed, the boy returned the favour with a heavy blow to the man's chest, staggering the huntsman. He stumbled backwards, and his aura flickered dangerously as it protected him from the worst of the boy's monstrous strength.

Shots rang out behind the boy, but the bullets reached him first before the sound did.

The boy was faster than both of them. Or rather, he had already known of the individual destinies of the bullets in the pistol's magazine long before it was loaded by the huntress.

Darkness engulfed him, and the silvery rounds struck the thin fold of smoke that the boy had become. The bullets passed through harmlessly, straight towards the huntsman who the boy had been fighting, who reacted in the nick of time to swat them away with his sword.

Behind him, the huntress stared on incredulously at the boy's sudden metamorphosis. Her face paled, and fear screamed into her mind, locking her movements. The boy was no longer a ghost, and now he grasped in bony white fingers the blade of his sabre. He spun around immediately, graceful as a dancer, and watched as the air around his machete pulsed and distorted as he threw it at the woman.

There was a tremendous bang as it sailed through the intervening air, and a shockwave radiated from the tip of the blade. In an instant, the point of the machete had punched through the strongest of the huntress' auric fields.

Then it pierced through skin and muscle and bone, passing out behind her and pinning her hand to the wall.

The huntress screamed at the pain of the injury. Several of the bones in her right palm had been either broken or sliced in two, and the sabre had been embedded in several inches of concrete. Tiny beads of blood dripped down the length of her forearm, but for the most part, it was a bloodless injury.

Footsteps behind him drew the boy's attention. He was not fast enough to dodge them, and five electrified bullets slammed into his back in quick succession, and the boy grunted as they thudded against his armoured ribcage, cracking it open. Blood gushed from the wound in a torrent as it began to seal itself shut, but this time, the boy did not falter. He had become accustomed to the pain, which was now a mild annoyance in comparison to what he had endured at first. His wounds were fully healed in a matter of seconds, with only dots of scar-tissue to mark their locations.

The huntsman fired three more into the boy's chest, but they did not slow his advance in the slightest.

He darted towards the man whose aura was slowly regenerating. It was not enough for the next part. The man unsheathed his sword again and swung it him frantically.

The boy sidestepped the blow and jabbed the man in his chest almost casually. As expected, the auric field fizzled once more and finally shattered, and the man cried out in pain, throwing a fist at the boy in a ditch attempt to inflict as much damage as possible.

Almost too fast for the eye to see, the boy sidestepped the blow and caught the arm as it returned to its owner.

He tugged on the arm almost languidly – it offered some resistance for a split second – and ripped it from its socket with a wet pop. The huntsman fell to the ground screaming madly as blood sputtered and gushed wildly onto the floor in a torrent of crimson.

The boy released the man's arm in disgust, and it fell to the floor, holding the huntsman's sword in a vice-like grip.

Now that all the huntsmen had been either killed or rendered unable to fight, he had some time to breathe. There was nobody outside of the apartment, but the police would've been informed by now by the neighbours. He bent down and pried the huntsman's sword from pale dead fingers that belonged to a pale dead arm and examined it carefully.

It was a beautiful longsword, meant to be wielded with a single hand. The grip had been made from fine leather, and it was gentle on the boy's palm. It had been custom-made, but it was suitable for his hands. The silvery, fullered blade was strong but elegant, and the steel quillons had been designed with practicality in mind. This solidified the boy's doubts about their membership in the Valean Police Department. As far as he was aware of, it did not employ huntsmen.

In a flash, the boy had the huntsman pinned to the ground by the sheer force of his bodyweight. He bent down and unclipped the longsword's scabbard from the man's waist. After inspecting it for a few seconds, he clipped it on his own pair of pants that Cynthia had lent him and sheathed the blade of the longsword with an oily rasp.

The boy kicked the pistol from the fallen huntsman's grasp. Looking down at the man, the Primarch could feel nothing but hatred in the huntsman's eyes.

He sighed, and gently stamped on the huntsman's sprawled elbow once, shattering the joint within.

_Crack!_

The huntsman screamed like a banshee, and tears darkened his mask. The huntress' eye widened in horror.

"Please, stop! We'll give you anything you want! I'll promise not to attack you if you'd jus-"

_Crack!_ \- the man's left knee caved in as the boy applied a little pressure. The man released another bloodcurdling scream, spit flying from his mouth. It was a monstrous, insane cry that must've shredded his vocal cords. And then he screamed some more, wheezing pathetically and wordlessly.

Every scream was a blow to the boy's heart, but he knew what had to be done. Although aura could regenerate large gashes at an astounding speed, the same could not be said for broken bones. If the man was able to regenerate his aura, he could potentially attack with the same ferocity as he had before. The boy needed a way to put him down for good, so that he may never move again, at least, not for a long, long time.

"Please," pleaded the woman, tears streaming down the length of her cheeks. "We'll swear never to come back! Please, _please_! Spare him!"

The boy's face was expressionless as he held his foot above the huntsman's right knee. She was beginning to get annoying.

\+ Do you know how much I _hate_ that word? + he asked, not expecting a reply. The psychic might forced itself into the assassin's mind, and she clutched the right side of her head in agony. He stared down at the huntsman's quivering body.

He was quivering too.

He was quivering with rage.

"W-What?"

There was no warning.

The boy was upon her in an instant.

He drew the blade from the wall - through her hand - and shattered her right shinbone with a heavy kick.

He seized her neck as she fell and threw her across the living room. She struck a steel fridge in Cynthia's kitchen with the force of a highway collision, breaking several ribs and dislocating her shoulder.

The boy stared at the cowering form of the huntress beside the fridge. A shallow dent had been made on its surface, but the woman was very much alive.

\+ I _hate_ that look on your face, that bovine intelligence in your eyes. I _hate_ that word you keep saying. You wouldn't have shown me mercy, would you? No, you wouldn't. This is obviously not the first time you've killed people for money, for your personal profit. This is not the first time you've ignored someone's pleas for mercy, is it? How many people have said 'please' to you? Dozens? Hundreds? So why demand something that you cannot reciprocate? But that's enough talk, the police will be here soon enough. +

He sighed. Letting out that rage had felt so good, almost euphoric to him. He wanted to beat her to death, savouring every blow he landed on her, throttling the life from her with his bare hands, watching her scream, but that would overstep the bounds of self-defence. These urges sometimes terrified him, and the boy would sometimes wonder why he'd experience them at all.

But something else intrigued the boy. Certainly, elements of individualism were banned in the VPD. Their black jumpsuits were undoubtedly expensive, more so than the VPD's budget would allow. Their weapons were definitely of premium quality, and they fought with the strength and speed of true huntsmen, even going so far as to inflict several wounds on his body that would undoubtedly be fatal to any human.

But what interested the boy were the similarities in their equipment.

For example, all of them used a pistol and a sword. There were no exceptions to this general rule. Upon closer inspection, the pistols were vastly different from each other, each of a different design and manufacturer. Some were even capable of transforming into weapons such as knives and batons.

Noting these similarities, the boy wondered if they had been taught together in the same huntsman academy, wherever that was.

He shifted his attention to the man, cowering on the floor and doing his best to stem his murderous injury with his shirt. The woman behind him eyed him nervously. The adrenaline that spiked her blood kept her very much awake.

The boy turned to the fallen huntsman on the floor, scanning the man's torso to the point where it terminated in a ragged, bloody stump.

\+ Why have you come? You're not an operative of the police, are you? I don't recognize your uniform - if it even is one in the first place - and neither is your equipment considered the standard issue. Who hired you? Tell me! +

The thought invaded the man's mind, deafeningly loud. His eyes widened in terror and shock, their pupils dilated, and his heart pounded mindlessly against his temples.

"G-Go to hell, you monster."

The boy didn't know why, but suddenly a rush of anger made him lose control. It was that simple.

\+ Not willing to talk? Your impudence will cost you your life, then. Needless to say, your friend will be a truly useful source of information. +

Reason fled his mind in that instant, and the boy unsheathed his sword, his hand moving so quickly that it could not be seen at all.

Before Esteban could say anything, a flash of mirthless silver appeared to fly through the air.

He blinked.

_What was that?_

He had the fleeting impression of something very light and thin and bright moving through the air before he did so, but then he doubted his memory.

Suddenly, he felt so very light in the head, and he noticed that the pain had disappeared from his severed arm.

He couldn't feel his chest, not his good arm, not his legs, not anywhere.

He tried to move, but no strength could be summoned.

Esteban was paralyzed.

His eyes flickered frantically around their sockets, and he saw the boy's hand grasping the sword that had been stolen from him, and Colleen screaming, and something felt wet on his neck.

But the boy's hand was not where it had been just a moment ago.

His arm was outstretched, and the sword was pointed sidelong, and the blade – the blade was stained faintly with blood.

His blood.

The boy had killed him so quickly that Esteban had missed it by blinking —

— And as the terrible realization of what had just happened dawned upon him, darkness filled the huntsman's vision for the very last time as he fell.


End file.
